Her limbs turn more wooden with each step, sticking to the ground as if the slender girl had been born from the bough of some great tree rather than from a womb, and now seeks to cast her own roots into the earth. Truthfully, she might prefer such an end if she knew her true fate. Yet those are not the thoughts that plague her steps. It is the scent of Easthollow that brings heaviness to her limbs, the lingering memory of a silver boy with infuriatingly green eyes. Like his mother. Like her mother. She drops Stanley abruptly, agitated by the burden. The boy isn't here, and neither is their mother — and they won't come, surely, unless she calls. But she won't.
But... why is she here, then?

The rabbit sprints into view only moments before the woman comes leaping after it, finishing the kill quickly. The scent of blood overwhelms her for a moment; it has been far too long since her last meal. But she is no thief, so she resists the urging of deep-rooted instincts to stride forward and take what she wants. Instead, she approaches casually, noting belatedly the scent of Easthollow clinging to the stranger. Her jaw tightens, but she greets the pale wolf politely. Good catch, She tells her, struggling to keep a note of longing from entering her tone. You're from Easthollow?

The woman's answer is brief, and not as welcoming as Keen might have liked. Her teeth clench together painfully, but she manages to part them long enough to give her own answer. I'm Keen. Valette is my mother, She explains, wondering if the association will draw something a bit more polite from the stranger. But part of her doesn't really care, truthfully; she has already decided that this woman, whoever she is, is rude — and certainly not worthy of walking among her family as one of their own. The thought reminds her of another wolf, equally unworthy yet there, infuriatingly, while she remains an outsider. She wonders, suddenly, if this stranger is close to that wolf. It would be fitting. Do you know Greyback?

She nods, somewhat placated by the response that follows — but it isn't quite enough to change her opinion just yet. What do you think about him? She asks, shifting slightly and taking a step closer, just barely outside of the stranger's personal space. The woman had offered a name, she realizes, but she'd missed it. It isn't important anyway, though; what is important now is what the other says next.

She can see the woman's discomfort, and her cheeks heat with embarrassment. But before she can stammer out an apology and take a step back, the pale wolf's words register. He's nice, I suppose. It sounds so simple, so... dismissive. She almost can't believe it. The man who had stolen the love of her mother and siblings, who had taken for himself the life Stark had been meant to have, and in the process ruined hers — reduced to a simple kind sentence. A pleasantry. He's not nice, She snaps, taking it for ignorance despite how much it feels like an insult. The hair along her spine bristles as she speaks. He's — he's a thief and a fraud. He's not nice. Take it back.