Barrow Fields Barracuda

She faced him with a mix of fear and aggression, but he did not leave her be. He only ceased his forward steps and then spoke to her. Her fur smoothed, and her lips descended over her fangs, but she held her weight back. The flight response was still wholly engaged, and she would flee at the slightest provocation. Yet, she found sense in his words, and some subtle comfort.

"I don't," she answered. She was not a lone wolf by choice, nor did she want to remain such. But she pined for the familiarity of her homestead, and for the security of the pack she knew. In short, it was not his company she wanted, but he continued to speak, and she knew he was making an effort to ease her. She had her own paranoia, so in a way, and in this way she could relate to him.

"Is that whose blood you wear? The blood of a thief?" Her head canted as he took a long look at him, her pale eyes tracing the smears of crimson that sullied his coat. If he had fought and killed someone that had threatened his own life by trying to deny him food, she could not fault him.

She inhaled deeply, releasing her breath slowly and steadily before she shook her coat to calm her tension more so.