Desperate times

Still mourning the loss of his treasures from their previous home, Gwenaël tried to occupy himself with his other hobby of nosing around for berries to eat. He was particularly fond of blueberries, although they had the unfortunate consequence of staining his fur; regardless, he was stressed right now. He deserved it.

A few small, sad-looking bushes remained of such bounty, and upon discovery, he cast a quick, furtive glance at his surroundings - ascertained no one was watching - and then quickly set to work, stripping its spindly branches in just a few minutes. His muzzle was now colored a delightful purple hue, swiping his tongue over the remaining juices.

It was unseemly - but no one was around anyway.

With a heavy sigh, Gwenaël rolled onto his side, letting the plush grasses cushion his fall.

What tragic circumstances he had found himself in.
 

@Ianthe

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Had she thought this through - and had focused on more than the brief need to belong - she might not have agreed to join Highvalley.

But there had been something captivating about the hollow, and the wolves that ached to conquer it. She didn't mind the scoff from Percival - or the way he had seemed to place judgement on her before she had spoken a word. She had never placed her emotions in others for safekeeping, so their scrutiny would seem to have little effect on her mentality. What she had yearned for - searched for, these past weeks - had been a home, and a family. Despite how mismatched she may be in this predicament, she could find a way to worm herself into their arms.

She'd be damned if she didn't try. But it also wasn't something she was entirely too focused on, however. Ianthe felt she had time to gather herself here, time to rest.

On an afternoon stroll, it would happen she'd run into another - a man that reeked of herbs and foliage, something she couldn't quite place. Upon first glance, he hadn't yet noticed her, and she was still not sure she should even reveal herself. The maiden curled a tress of raven hair around her graceful finger, as if lost in thought. Oh, well, it wasn't as though she expected him to greet her better than the Wolvenking.

"Comfortable?" the girl would hum, referencing the way he sprawled lazily across the grasses with a gentle lilt of her chin. There was no malice to her words, but she did feel a slight, sickening joy in finding one of the Highborn in such a position.

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He was in the middle of a beautiful dream.

Snoring lightly, a thin line of drool eking out from betwixt his velvety lips, he was in the midst of a vision of loveliness, seated upon a soft bed of moss as a trio of comely she-wolves fawned over him with tribute and praise. They buried their silken muzzles within his fluffy nape, making delicious feminine sounds of pleasure as they tickled him with their gentle ministrations. Pale, soft, draped in luxurious silvers and creams and pale lavenders; how beautiful they were. How beautiful he was.

"Comfortable?" one of the maidens asked, though her mouth remained curiously stationary.

Actually - the voice seemed to come from somewhere else.

Gwenaël woke with a start, launching a flurry of flower petals and leaves into the air as he sat bolt upright, periwinkle eyes wide and confused. Gods damn it all, hopefully it wasn't one of his -

Oh. It was worse.

A Lowblood.

He eyed the dark woman before him suspiciously, delicately raising a paw to wipe the saliva from the corner of his mouth. He huffed, straightening up before rising to a stand, and thanked the heavens that he hadn't faltered this time - she was a stranger, after all, and she had no business knowing of his condition. He had to present well.

“Quite, in fact,” he said tacitly, casting his eyes elsewhere. She was an eyesore in this seemly landscape, a dark blemish upon the light canvas behind her.

“You do know you trod upon Highblood lands? Surely someone else has informed you.”

Gwenaël did not know her from before; thus, she was deemed no better than riffraff.

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