Honestly she wasn't really sure what to make of this male. One minute he seemed like he wanted nothing more than to chew on her and the next he was trying to get her to hurry up and hunt. And he called her princess. Her golden eyes widened a bit at the words and she tilted her small head to the side, clearly pensive about such a thing, but she obediently begins to move as he does while her mind attempts to condense everything she knew about him into her thoughts. And really it wasn't much. She didn't even know his name. That was important, the main basis of a conversation and meeting with someone. Maybe he didn't want to tell her for some reason but maybe he was waiting for her to ask, being polite - bah, that didn't seem likely.

Fjallraven wages an internal battle with herself while attempting to walk lightly upon her injured paw. No need to give him more grievance for her wound. He might actually tell her to get lost if she started whining. Her mother had always hated it whenever Fjallraven had bemoaned some wound so she had learned to keep silent, for the most part, when such a thing occurred. She follows him into the brush, falling instinctively at his hips like the small shadow that she was raised to be. Every move he did she followed though she was a bit more clumsy. Where his large paws knew how to splay and grip in silence hers scratched and scuffed noisily.

Yet she tried, she really did! She tried not to talk as they walked, her eyes peering around even while her mind whirred, but she couldn't refrain from it finally. "I'm Fjallraven. What is your name?" Her angelic voice is polite, curious, forgetting for a moment the way he had been angry before. "I'm not a princess by the way. I just live in Asteraia," she speaks, so innocent, so stupid really, as if him saying such was meant to be factual rather than some pet name.

Even as she spoke her eyes glanced about and caught the brown fur of a rabbit frozen beneath a thicket of berries. Her ears prick now and she splits from Magnus's side. "There is one!" She whispers in a whisper that is not quite as quiet as it should be, and she eyes the still figure of the rabbit. At this angle all she can see is the lower body and the small mouth, but no eyes or ears of the rabbit. She crouches down slowly, her skinny figure almost fox like, and tries to peer under the bush from a few feet away pondering how best to go after it without getting entangled in the brambles.