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[ His tongue lolls, eyes falling half-lidded as Olivine scratches the base of his ears. The only reason he doesn’t roll on his side is those hands continuing to search him.

They come away with blood. Basch whines again, licking at the mess.

Called, his thoughts are a little clearer. Relief. Sadness. Worry. Affection. He aches to curl around his human, to hold him, to go home to their nest. ]

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Basch fon Ronsenburg

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