Silver Moraine his garden at argenteuil

The grass had thinned to nothingness, leaving an exposure of bedrock riddled with feldspar and quartz. Upon seeing this, he swept his gaze backwards as if to make sure he had been on the right trajectory - and then forward, to see if ever the stonework ended. Renoir noticed the shifting colors of the stone and the odd, natural patterns within it; he was studying this when the rumbling of another wolf sounded on the wind. With some grace, he turned to regard the stranger - and upon seeing the raised tail and affronted gaze, he dropped his own.

A small whine was his only verbal response, ducking his head and looking away from her, at the rocks. He found comfort in their hues and tints, the texture of the moraine beneath his toes. Ren took one step hastily, and then tempted fate with a shy look upon the woman who opposed him. She was a beautiful thing - ripe and round like an overripe peach - which made him wonder why she was out here, instead of off in a den somewhere.

Pardonnen, he breathed, hoping that she was not about to do something silly or combative in her current state - 'ave I.. done something wrong? If so, he would do his best to remedy it. Thus far it seemed as if he was imposing on something, and that made him think - perhaps the moraine was of great importance to her.