the last daughter of the shadow-grin
female | eight | 38 inches | 100 pounds | no heart | no soul | gypsy loner
She can see something in his eyes as she speaks his name that tells her there is more in that mind than some older male wolf. Here there be dragons.
Her comments to his physical capability and clear survivalist talent do not pass unnoticed either. He seems more intrigued by her commenting on it, on her admiration of it.
“Collecting dust… no dear, waiting for the opportune moment.” His retort does not mean much more than he wishes to be contrary, to be thought of as more dark than even the night that embraces them now. It is a common thread, she has found, in wolves who were so blatantly scarred. Perhaps the good wolves who became scarred simply leapt from the cliffs of Spirane when they were so marred in Moladion…
She digresses…
His rising does bring her ears forward, a readiness back into her leg muscles that is plenty visible to anyone who has fought as long or many times as this wolf clearly had. His nearing her, however, is not something that disturbs her as much as intrigues her. Intrigues her that he is making free of her person, scenting her with a curt snort to rid himself of the scents of the gypsies (or that is what she makes of it). She regards him all the while until he deigns to return her regard.
“Where do you come from?”
“I am a gypsy, a loner. I wander where I will, never more than a season spent in any one place.” She feels a little twinge at the corner of her mouth at the hint there had been of irritation, a slow wag of her slightly tip-curled tail betraying the amusement.
“I was born in a place far beyond Moladion, if that is what you meant.” Never a liar, and at least for now she also felt interested enough to be forthcoming even.
