The little raccon moved with a swiftness. A fluid and seamless movement which a woman of Wardruna's size could never dream to behold. In an instant, her little snowy chest was pressed to the cream and tan of Wardruna's own. Her muzzle slipped under the northerner's chin.

Wardruna stiffened. Sheauga's followed.

And just as quickly as the little woman was pressed to her, she was jumping back and eyes casting to her feet in what seemed either shame or embarrassment.

Wardruna's own eyes turned back then, at first uncertain of what to do. What to say. She felt a tightness in her chest.

Then, all at once, Wardruna too moved with a suddenness. She leaned forward in her sit and lifted a forleg, meant to wrap around the back of Sheauga and pull her back against her where she had been moments prior. Her head moving down to drape over her nape. She didn't cry. She didn't speak. Only breathed in deeply and held tightly.