Dragoncrest Cliffs i could base my whole existence on the cherry-strands of your gold hair

The moment she was parted with a snippet of her voice, the nervous female gasped and hauled down again, sinking deeply into the ground and tilting her pinnae –– invoking whatever godhead that existed to deal with chickenshits such as herself and praying she wouldn't be forsaken by a pair of ragtorn triangles peeking out of the winterized tallgrass.

Suddenly, the stranger was unseated like a booster coil by a barrage of what seemed to be common sense recalled to life. It was all she could do not to steal a look-see as he gunned it across the breadth of the waterfront, quick as a hiccup and tense on the verge of wild abandon, seemingly spooked by the vision of imminent quietus. Squeezing her eyes shut, Lu invested all her hope in the notion that if she couldn't see him, Tachyon would not be able to see her as he cheesed it into the adjacent brake.

Prying open one eyelid, she watched with unremitting dismay as he instead carved a path in her direction. The male appeared to recollect himself once offshore, slowing up in a bid to salvage a relationship with his self-respect, or something resembling it anyway.

Lusca heard the rustle of his advance and her eyes popped open, lantern gaze beholding a pair of wet sand-encrusted phalanges. She scrambled to her feet in time to catch his blundering ahem, self-consciousness seizing her by the throat as he blatantly assessed her genetic constitutions. Really guy? Reflexively, she drew a foreleg to her chest and crinkled her brow, a displeased snort expelled from her nostrils with annoyance from having been so impolitely scrutinized. 

She took subtle stock of his silver-plate fur, its brilliance briefly stirring bitter sentiments of envy. Her own pelt, a muddied palette of coal and roasted coffee, often left her with dysmorphic feelings that proved difficult to eradicate. 

"H-hi-hello..." she returned, the dubious lilt of her voice flushed and hemorrhaging with awkwardness. Slowly, she drew her leg away from her bosom and replanted both feet firmly on the ground, squaring up her shoulders –– aiming for some semblance of self-possession, a quality which she'd had varying degrees of success with in the past. 

Despite the resurgence of social anxiety spuming in her chest, having been cut from the threadbare cloth of uncouthness, Lusca dropped her head and cast her eyes about for signs of eavesdroppers before abruptly blurting out in low tones: "inquiring minds want to know; do you ever have thoughts of suicide?" She eyed him, concern and eldritch wonder inlaying her voice.