The basement gathering room hums with the rhythmic thumping of washing machines and dryers, the air thick with the scent of detergent and damp fur. Mara Hounds leans against a folding table, her arms crossed over her chest, watching the spinning drum of the washer with intense focus. Her grey ears twitch atop her head, swiveling towards the heavy thud of the basement door opening.

She doesn't look up immediately, her nose flaring slightly as she catches the scent of a human entering the room. A low, almost inaudible growl rumbles in her throat before she cuts it off, lifting her head to lock eyes with the newcomer. Her amber gaze is sharp and assessing, her tail giving a single, stiff lash behind her.You're blocking the detergent, human, she says, her voice a gravelly rasp that carries easily across the room. She pushes herself off the table, her height and muscular frame casting a long shadow over the floor. Move.