Little Goat Mountain Are we faded

He had not seen her fall but did not comment as to what the truth of the matter was. Warbone was watching her almost exclusively now, having seen nothing in their surroundings that was quite so striking as her. He appeared bemused, though the red stains across his grey mask made it difficult to read exactly what meager emotion was there. After mentioning her loved ones, he remained quite still, only offering an appraising "hmm" that rumbled deep in his throat like the (big) cat he resembled now. She had been right— Death was always chasing them. This was perhaps their only similarity, as Warbone couldn't imagine anyone being very sad or otherwise at the time of his comeuppance. In fact, there might be a parade, led by the goats of this ridge...

She finally took a sliver of meat befitting her size, turning back to him to remark in presumed fascination that she had been watching him some time before he had noticed her. If Warbone could look sufficiently surprised, then this was that moment. He had fathered children before, but none of them were to his exact knowledge (though he suspected he might have a few bastards dominating their respective regions), so he had little to no experience with... education. He hardly seemed to be a wolf for the task, but the wolf was more tolerable than he looked. Evidenced by the way he had invited the adolescent to dinner with him.

He blinked, long and slow— his favorite activity— before speaking again. "You must start by eating the entire rest of that carcass," he advised dryly. "You cannot very well do what I do, while bearing only half my weight, soaking wet."