the last daughter of the shadow-grin
female | eight | 38 inches | 100 pounds | no heart | no soul | gypsy loner
Her strike does not make him piss or pout and she immediately thinks well (or better) of him for the fortitude. He is, however, unusually alert. He looks around, keen on surroundings that she knew held no shadows to sneak up, simply for knowing this world for all her wandering. It is only when he settles back down that she lets her eyes drift shut. He was paranoid enough for the both of them and she was entirely capable enough to defend against anything he might try to pull.
He licks her, she settles her full weight into relaxation, preceding even his apology.
“My apologies, gypsy. I have...urges.” She nods, then readjusts her head, muzzle, and neck back across him and into his fur.
“Do not all beasts have these things?” she asks,
“If you did not, I would be required to be offended.” She notes that he again turns his attention to their surroundings, but at least he answers her returned question.
“I fear falling short.”
She is impressed by the answer, mostly for it’s honesty. It is a common fear, though it is a rare one who would admit it. Most were too proud to ever hint that they might otherwise have to fear something like that at all.
“Wise enough, I think, if one was to fear anything at all. Best to fear that you will not be all you can be… though in my opinion, you’d do well to fear nothing as I fear nothing-- you do not seem to fall short to me.” She does not know why one so seasoned and well-lived as he would doubt his proven prowess, but she is not dissuaded of his worth for that weakness of self-assurance. It is a common flaw.
“I will kill you, if you should ever fall short… how is that, then? You can rest assured you have not if you still breathe and I still keep your company, isn’t that so?”
