Pride is something I have no shortage of. Between my pride and my curiosity, one would think there was room for little else in my head, but the capacity for knowledge in the space between my ears is immense. So often, though, I find it defiled by intruders, whether they be in the form of thoughts I don’t want to think, or wolves I don’t want to see. I never shirk an opportunity to learn something new; I just don’t do a lot of socializing. I’ve never been one to seek out the company of others. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the things they know, or the experiences they’ve had – it just seems wasteful not to learn and experience them for myself.
Why wait on words when I can get the information first-hand?
This particular trait of mine is personified in the excitement on my face as I all but prance away from the ice. Were I a girl with many friends, perhaps one of them could have told me all about walking on frozen water, but I have none. And yet, I’ve learned the thing myself, without a gaggle of onlookers to jeer at me if I should fall. As I round the pool, however, I discover that someone has been watching me, a great black wolf, and he stands blatantly against the white of snow and ice as if to say, ‘Ha! Some observer you turned out to be.’
I narrow my eyes at him when he speaks. There’s a strange word mixed in with that tone I don’t like. I don’t know what tundra means, or if it’s even a real thing, but that’s not exactly paramount in my mind. My first reaction is irritation, mostly at myself; it’s a rare wolf who can sneak up on me. I scold myself for getting so lost in scrabbling across the surface of some stupid ice, but I do notice a few things as I’m calculating a response to – what I think – is a jab at my explorations. He’s quite a bit larger than me, but bigger isn’t always better. Rarely is it faster. And that salt and pepper along his chin doesn’t pass me by, either.
Bigger. Older.
The only thing on his side might be experience.
“Who’s to say I wasn’t?” I finally toss back, my observations of his exterior now complete. It’s a risky response, since I still haven’t decided if ‘the tundra’ exists in reality, but I’m a risky conversationalist when I do make conversation. His voice is gruff, whether from age or simple masculinity, in contrast to my young, dulcet tone, and I wonder vaguely what it’s like to look at me from a distance, to take in my entirety all at once. Does he see a granddaughter? Or does he see something he wishes he could have? I offer him a playful smile and a slow blink of my viper’s eyes to test the waters.
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