Freezing rain. Ugh. It's not quite snow, but it's decidedly worse. Soon the ground will be a blanket of ice, and wouldn't that be miserable? She supposes she could speak the words of poetry, know the world as it is, but her words will not come to her. There is sorrow in her gaze, for she would not have that comfortable wooden cat home that was built for her back on campus. She could not curl up besides the slam poetry bar and listen to the youths give their orations. She misses it, frankly.

Instead, she sits curled beneath the root of a great tree, too close to the ground for comfort but sheltered at least from the freezing assault. She ought to find Jaxxon and make him keep her dry, but she's gone on one of her excursions. Crepuscular, the evening is a perfect time to be out and about. Alas, for the sunlight that would dapple across her hide, there is naught to be seen.

She stays low and still, looking for any opportunity to dart out. And then she sees the other wolf, the stranger. Her eyes glimmer briefly in the dying light. She could go deeper beneath the tree, out of the beast's jowls. A swipe of her claws should deter sticking a nose into her hollow. The ridge of her back goes up: a single warning. Step too close, and she will strike.

But should the brute prove to be civil, perhaps Mullock could speak. One could stand to learn more of the world, and while Mullock doubts a dog could ever teach her a thing, perhaps she could give them a passing education.