The Sentinels Randy Dandy O

Doe's ears flickered at the greeting. Ahoy. She knew lass, of course, and found no fault in that, but it took her a moment to file away the first word in the dark recesses of her mind. Ahoy. She would know it, next time.

By the time all her processing had ended, there was a question hanging between them. Doe licked her lips and said, succinctly, "I live here." There was no territorial accusation in her voice. She didn't live here, after all, but in the bay beside here. On the coast, as the woman had asked. Doe did not return the question - it was obvious why the woman was here - the sea was more bountiful than the land.

"You smell alone," she said instead, ears turning this way and that, as if checking the facts her nose was telling her against the silence of the woods. The only sound was the crashing of the waves, and Doe was so accustomed to that that it no longer registered as noise. It just was.