Of all the traits she has acquired since childhood, the most useful is patience.

Like any good predator, she is blessed with the ability to use time to her advantage. It's a thing to be crafted and honed - the most dangerous weapon in one's arsenal. When in the right paws, it spills secrets and uncovers truths and like a thief in the night, she waits in the shadows to gather them all up, one by one.

Through pensive cat eyes, with pupils dilating and retracting in camera-sharp focus, she watches from the canopies. Silent and statuesque, she observes and calculates and sifts through the information obtained thus far.

The day she's spent stalking this one has already provided a great many things. If today had been a fairy, it might as well have been a drunken tavern wench for all the things she's learned.

But it's the timing of the rotation of his guard she plucks out of it first and foremost. And the gaps in their vigilant security, where soft and shadowy figures can slink and wind between the dappled patches of forest light to draw closer and closer.

He reeks from this distance. Her nose scrunches in distaste, drawing her petite face up tight and she pants a few breathes to avoid the overwhelmingly strong smell of dog that leeches from the very air around him. She always did hate that smell. And it's one she'd be hard pressed to forget.

But he looks so different then the boy that's tied to that scent in her memory. Taller, of course. Bigger hands. Broader. But it's more than that. It's a weariness that's carved into every angle of his face. He's in grave danger of appearing vulnerable and young - unfitting traits for a strong ruler and justifiably the cause of having to hide like a common outlaw in the deep forests of this land.

Her eyes narrow as he turns and she studies his profile for several minutes thoughtfully. Perhaps there is some shimmer there, in the sad jade of his eyes, that reflects some semblance of a great warrior's heir. Or perhaps that is only a projection of what she hopes to see.

He turns from her again, and frustrated, she grunts and slips from the shadows of the branches to the cool earth, her patience at long last fleeting. When she eventually speaks, it's throaty and dark, the jaguar's intensity taking over her words. The big cat within her is curious, but does not wish to mince words and play games of niceties.

"Boy."

She creeps, fluid and feline, around the trunk of the giant oak to meet his eye and hold it unblinking. "Who are you?"

She does not want a name - she knows it. She does not want a title - they are useless words. She wants an explanation for his weakness, for this pale cowering shadow of his father she sees now instead of a king Shaman deserves.