This woman had disturbed the mists and they seemed to peel away from her as if afraid of her growing tension. Beltane, of course, fretted very little over such a thing. Somehow she had managed to go throughout her life unharmed despite her eccentricities; even now, she hadn't even considered the possibility that things might not go well. For all she knew, Natiya's silence could be her preparing to lunge for her, the furrow in her brow like a snake coiling. Beltane wouldn't mind either way. Beltane knew everything seemed to happen for one reason or another.
As Natiya blinked, slow and steady, Beltane's head tilted just as slow and steady. Was she surprised? Was she bothered? Although her face was full of feeling, Beltane had trouble pinpointing just what that might be. Natiya was strange. Beltane just didn't know what kind of strange yet.
And for now, she didn't really mind either way. Beltane had never been submissive, after all, and Natiya seemed to have difficulty finding her footing as far as their standing went. Though Beltane did not demand submission and, in fact, her tail did little but hang loosely between her legs, her head netural to her neck - pure neutrality - she seemed to catch the woman off guard. Silverknife. She seemed uncertain and it brought about the smallest laugh from Beltane, though perhaps it was more pity than true amusement.
She waited expectantly, as if Natiya might bow to her in turn, but grew restless nonetheless. With that, she sauntered forward once more in much the same way that she had done so to Blackthorne; she circled, slow and deliberate steps, captivated by that momentary stiffness that had overcome the girl. She moved close, endlessly curious as to what boundaries existed in this world, and brushed the very edge of her nose along Natiya, breathing in the combination of the moors and the leftovers of salt that clung to her fur.