Grouse Thicket roll for initiative

A rustle of the brush—a pair of flat yellow eyes, much like the midsummer moon glowed back from her, and soon, a man emerged. Older—hardened, much like the warriors of her homeland. Gruff and formal—also, much to her distaste, like the men of her homeland.

Formalities and meaningless conversation had always been the worst her of role and title.

She jutted her chin up—his words indicating there had also been another he sought—but not wishing to look entirely naive (too late) or ridiculous (also too late, as she tried to shake a paw free from a more thorny branch), she instead went the route of many youths—resorting to snark. “Do your friends usually run away from you?”

Her tongue slid over white untouched lips—her eyes rapt upon him, waiting for his feathers to be ruffled by the barb—he seemed like a ruffled feather kind of guy.