Three Years ∴ No banner held ∴ Looking for love in all the wrong places ∴ Soul searching

Such a dainty thing, the lady cast her gaze away at he flattery, showing due bashfulness which had Stark musing triumphantly in his mind. But she is not quite stunned into silence and soon returns with a quip, her tone soft and eyes softer still. The brute tilted his head in thought, his white banner giving an amused wave as he nodded in agreement.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Stark concurred, his grin slacking and eyebrows raising in a sentiment of sincerity. “You jest, but there is certainly a magical quality about you, little rose.”

A silence followed the short exchange, and, for a time, the pale wolf’s silver gaze stayed with the stranger, watching the expressions flutter across her face. She is flattered, yes, but, in the quiet that fell between them, Stark noticed, too, a worry and a hesitance. It was not unwarranted; he had come upon her as a stranger, and, despite his silver tongue and pleasant show of self, he was an impressive beast. Still in his youth at three years of age, he was already easily twice her size, and his tall, proud posture would only make it too apparent. However, wherever her fears had settled, she seemed to forget them a moment later, her posture relaxing and curiosity in her eyes as she ventures to step closer.

Like reflection, Stark mirrors small wolf’s movement, shortening the distance between them with a modest step in her direction. A twitch of her nares elicits a low rumble from her stomach, but, just as she seems to ignore her own hunger, the white brute makes no outward show of acknowledgment. A part of his mind drifts back toward the dead badger in the brush, and, though he is not hungry, he finds himself conflicted. Part of him knows the more chivalrous move would be to offer this hungry girl his spare meal, but…it was his, and why should she, a perfect stranger, be entitled to something of his? Still, perhaps he had an obligation, being so much better equipped to provide, to help those of…lesser means. The burden of such privilege, he supposed.

His thoughts, however, are pushed aside for the moment as the petite girl introduces herself, and he offers his own with a smile in return. “Stark.” His smile shifts to a spritely smirk at her teasing tone, amusement shining in his eyes. “Is it common, where you come from, for ladies to offer strangers to rest at their side?” There is, perhaps, a tinge of judgment to his words, but it is quickly buried in his pleasant demeanor and a soft chuckle. “But, no. You have my word. I never cared much for the taste of flowers.” With fluid movement, Stark lower himself to the ground before the girl, showing his ease as he lay on his stomach before her sitting form, paws crossing one over the other.