The far off crackle of snow against paw snapped an ear back and one forward, cautious but daring; he waited with bated breath, his skin prickled and his heart fluttered. The cold had concealed her scent, stifled his knowledge of her arrival, and he pondered whether she had sent another to deal with him. He wondered if he could hold his own, send some stranger back to her with a scar but, he thought better of it. After all, he had not come out of hate. He had come out of childishness, whimsy and his own weakness - that wasn't hate, that much he knew. Ehiyeh had at least made sure he understood what the want to be good felt like. It felt wrong to be good though. It felt wrong to be anything.

It is only when the moon outlines her in its kiss that his other ear flickered forward. He had always been a keen observer and instantly, he noticed the caution in her step. It made his eyes narrow, unsure of her own intentions before he took a cautious step forward, his tail flicking behind him before it settled at his hocks. Neutrality. After all, she could turn any moment, a blur of black and teeth. He was an enemy now, no? His stink of sea and salt made him a monster, his blood likely deeped such a fact. He wondered if he had grown fangs and talons, if he had begun to speak in the tongue of the beasts rather than the tongue of their kin. But, her voice said otherwise.

It was a single word - just his name, and weary at that and yet, he swore he could sense something else beneath the layers of uncertainty. She tested him but it was not a threat. But was he? He wasn't sure.

"Are you scared of me, Aster?" His words were almost a whisper, less accusative and more toying, a smirk tugging at the dark corners of his lips. He slinked forward a single stride once more before he spoke again, his head tilting in such a way to allow the moon to once more dance upon the white of his scar. "Should I not be the one afraid?" His brow rose and he sunk back down into himself, hidden once more by the shadow of the night. But there were some things that the shadows could not hide like the way his eyes lingered on her own with a far off sense of melancholy, of his own uncertainty. Was he an act of war, some thing to be shredded? Or had some part of him stayed good to her?