Run, Little Heir
The atmosphere was crisp and saturated, holding a high probability of immediate precipitation, and as our mounts breached the boundary lines of the plains, my olfactory filters absorbed the heavy scent of crushed damp foliage covering the vast expanses of wild grass.
"This will be the final clear weather window for this operational cycle, Alpha Heir, according to my telemetry," the scout observed.
I noticed his scanning optics continuously sweeping the horizon, monitoring for physical hazards, unaligned rogue hounds, or unverified sensory signatures. It was his primary directive to preserve my physical safety, and my system appreciated his defensive layer, even as my inner wolf chafed agains
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