Whitebark Stream remember me for centuries

Semet was content to lap at the water, only lifting his muzzle to lick his chops again and take a deep breath, giving his stomach a break so that he did not drink himself sick. It would be unfortunate to regurgitate what he'd just eaten. It was as he was cleaning his chops, licking the droplets of the cold water from his chin that he noticed her. Though the white birch trees did a good job of camouflaging her — an advantage that he distinctly did not have — there was no mistaking her presence as his fiery gaze noted how she adjusted her position. The snap of her jaws together was a clear warning — one that Semet understood and acknowledged as his ears slicked back flat against his skull. His posture lowered, his eyes lingering on her swollen sides for a moment a deeper understanding resounding within the warrior's mind.

“I only wanted a drink,” He expressed humbly, breaking his usual silence, his voice deep and gruff as he spoke across the distance to her, not so sure that she would care about what he wanted. “I mean no trouble.” He promised, keeping his posture low and submissive. This was the kind of dominance he recognized — clear and rigid. In that instance he was reminded of Heda though there was no physical similarities between them. Perhaps this woman, too, was an Heda in her own right — such would not surprise Semet. He took a few steps back from the water, though he had been hoping to sneak in a bath before he departed but if she pushed him to leave, Semet would not challenge her.