The excessive down that lines the nape of her neck only bristles further, spikes of fledgling tarp rising with every moment as her agitation, tinged with a not inconsiderable lacing of curiosity, mounts. To deny the icy fingers of weariness that prickled so petulantly at her gut would have been a farce, foolish in both theory and practice. It is a testament to her lineage that she does not trust as freely as some others might have; it is homage to the survivor bred into her by her dam that Maud is cautious, clever in preparedness. Harridan’s blood has owed her instincts that, once properly honed, shall prove invaluable… impeccable in their servitude to her longevity. This hardiness of spirit shall see her prosper; she shall not wane to the pressures of life in the fashion of the weak of mind and body.

However, it is not merely this proclivity for survival that has been bestowed upon her; it is far from the only gift sewn into the twists of her double helix. The genetics of her sire have bestowed upon her something far more… volatile than the will to go on living. To simply exist. She is cold in her dealings with others, even in this youthful age, preferring to linger apart from them in abject silence rather than indulge whatever non-existent social niceties might be expected. Abraxus’ genes have made her cunning, shrewd, calculating; the combined intellect of her parents culminating in an amalgamation of macabre potential. She is, or shall be, a lesson in predatory perfection.

And it is this facet of her budding persona that shifts into dominant position with the somewhat curt reply of the elder vixen. The prisms of her ears do not respond in a mimic of Natu’s, what lingering residue of agitation still grips her does not manifest further in any such display. Rather, Maud simply gazes on, the false warmth of her amber eyes flickering with things left unsaid, her mind slithering ahead in this interaction before it has yet to progress. A gruesome simper, a mockery of genuine glee, tugs subtly at the brims of her infant lips as she replies in a tone that cannot be anything other than salaciously sweet. ”Solitude.” The yearling lingers, as does her unnervingly impish grin, cranium shifting upon its axis, leaning to the side in a curious display. ”What are you doing out here so far from your… pack?”