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He responds to her in an instant and when she springs off, he is not far behind her. They are both in the thrill of the weight in their guts, the heat that rushes from gut to cheek and spurs a madness of crackling energy into their limbs and bright eyes. She is flashy, hard to miss despite her colorful surroundings. It means she will keep his attention, and this baser, wilder, self knows it. Relishes it. Bets on it.
They swirl and twine and dance about each other in the winter-madness that has overcome her. It is a hard thing, to refuse such naked displays of life and vigor. It is not something either are likely to do. Not when he matches her leap for leap, spin for spin, and bow for skittering bow.
He finally reaches ahead of her and drops into another bow, and she matches him, bow for bow and bolt after bolt. They are entwined into this little game, a tease that tells him ‘come catch me’, a whisper from her instincts to his that if he can but catch her, she might be his. If he could be just a little faster, a little stronger, a little more cunning, she was prey to be won.
She yips, a young sound despite her adult body, and barks with a whining tone to it, complaining on how slow he was and teasing him that perhaps he could not… catch her, she means.
And then she sprints, taking off through the forest in hopes he would. In hopes that he was the one for her (at least until she was herself again)..
the little lass of nowhere
female | 4 years | 23 inches | 63 pounds | no mate | no imprint
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