had he the words with which to speak, to describe her, lasher would have given it his all, but as it was, he had no rejoinder, save for the almost imperceptible quirk of smile upon his lips, one that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. not for the first time, taltos wondered at her age. it was something easily enough gleaned from the set of her shoulders and the sweep of her hips, but in many ways, tonravik seemed ageless, both endlessly old and unfathomably young. perhaps it was the curse of her witchblood, that she should exist in such a space.
silently, he watched as she turned away from him momentarily, pride swelling in his breast for the lovely curve of her throat, the strong line of her jaw. and in answer to the question posed with loud noiselessness in her eyes, lasher leant forward, slowly, as not to incur the wrath he knew boiled just beneath the dark surface of her pelt, and ran a careful tongue along the fine bone of one feminine shoulder.