It is clear to Sorcha that the male is not used to such company as hers for he had moved originally with a cautious manner and a self-incriminating grimace. Perhaps being a mute meant that he was often met with criticism or vile looks for the world was not always a kindly place. Sorcha was quite the opposite; it is because he is a mute that she thinks he must be clever, for he would have to be to make himself understood. And he knew how to listen for it was a thing that he had to learn in order to survive, unlike some whose voices boasted their pride with each loud lungful of air. There was no telling what secrets and stories hid behind his quiet lips, desperate to be told but forever being swallowed and smothered.

Such openness is a common trait with her but only when she spies a soul with good intent. There is a flavor in the air around him that denotes a slight danger yet she cannot pass him by. The winter does not call to her strongly like some - she is content with the children in Spring and harbors no intention of having her own for many years to come. Even then the idea fills here with a sense of trepidation, for to carry young was it's own great adventure and she was resolute that she would not do so lest she had someone to help share the burden. His scent is wholesome, a mix of the snow and bog and dirt that she finds charming for Sorcha is above all a wolf tied intimately to nature and the earth.

Again the male talks in his own fashion and her green eyes stare unblinkingly at him lest she miss some small signal to denote a word that might throw off the entire conversation. Her brows furrow against her eyes as she ponders what he means, for he does not seem perturbed by her words or uneasy. Many before had found her amusing in that they believed she lied - she was a storyteller after all, but her words were honest and truthful, if a bit fanciful to the ears. "I have a feeling that you have seen much then. What I wouldn't give to hear your story from your lips," she says with a wistful smile, clearly enticed by the idea.

"Phantom, is that what you said? You look more like a shadow to me, the kind of shadow that creeps across the ground beneath the silver light of the moon just at the edge of the darkest wood. If you do not mind, may I call you Shadow?" It felt right to her for Phantom was a name of one who might up and disappear and she did not wish for him to do so. Nay, she was finding herself quite drawn to the male, reading his signals and understanding him - even if she does nto quite realize her own effect on him. "We all have demons anyways. You said that the leader of the marshes called you that... but might I ask why you are not wintering there?"

It is clear to Sorcha that the male is not used to such company as hers for he had moved originally with a cautious manner and a self-incriminating grimace. Perhaps being a mute meant that he was often met with criticism or vile looks for the world was not always a kindly place. Sorcha was quite the opposite; it is because he is a mute that she thinks he must be clever, for he would have to be to make himself understood. And he knew how to listen for it was a thing that he had to learn in order to survive, unlike some whose voices boasted their pride with each loud lungful of air. There was no telling what secrets and stories hid behind his quiet lips, desperate to be told but forever being swallowed and smothered.

Such openness is a common trait with her but only when she spies a soul with good intent. There is a flavor in the air around him that denotes a slight danger yet she cannot pass him by. The winter does not call to her strongly like some - she is content with the children in Spring and harbors no intention of having her own for many years to come. Even then the idea fills here with a sense of trepidation, for to carry young was it's own great adventure and she was resolute that she would not do so lest she had someone to help share the burden. His scent is wholesome, a mix of the snow and bog and dirt that she finds charming for Sorcha is above all a wolf tied intimately to nature and the earth.

Again the male talks in his own fashion and her green eyes stare unblinkingly at him lest she miss some small signal to denote a word that might throw off the entire conversation. Her brows furrow against her eyes as she ponders what he means, for he does not seem perturbed by her words or uneasy. Many before had found her amusing in that they believed she lied - she was a storyteller after all, but her words were honest and truthful, if a bit fanciful to the ears. "I have a feeling that you have seen much then. What I wouldn't give to hear your story from your lips," she says with a wistful smile, clearly enticed by the idea.

"Phantom, is that what you said? You look more like a shadow to me, the kind of shadow that creeps across the ground beneath the silver light of the moon just at the edge of the darkest wood. If you do not mind, may I call you Shadow?" It felt right to her for Phantom was a name of one who might up and disappear and she did not wish for him to do so. Nay, she was finding herself quite drawn to the male, reading his signals and understanding him - even if she does nto quite realize her own effect on him. "We all have demons anyways. You said that the leader of the marshes called you that... but might I ask why you are not wintering there?"