Kildeer Rest a dead man's tale

Aaand now he's quite convinced you're all born of the woodwork. He'd heard plenty of stories from the talkative broodmothers of changelings and ancient magicks, or whatever they'd been. He'd never believed them, but with all the wolves blinking from corners and cracks in the wall, he's subject to go a little agnostic to the idea, if only to keep him entertained. Oh, he's quite aware of her being there - her presence bleeds around the corners of his own, which (in his opinion) is never something a female's should do - but he barely offers a glance upward, the single eye that so happens to be facing her giving one golden glint in her general direction.

She sounds some noise from that black throat, and he gives way to a pause, lifting his skulking head from the barrel of his chest. More Neverland lost children, far too young - so says he - to be so ultimately confident. His ear flickers, the deepset scowl in his scarred face lifting to a meager twitch of recognition. He remembered when he was so fair-faced and new, never bothering to lift but a submissive chitter to old necks that obviously deserved it. His scarred lip twitches. I'm too close? There's something like sarcasm beneath the gruff grunt of his voice, though his face is dead of most emotion as usual; if it was a rhetorical question, Karma couldn't tell. He knew what territory markers were, thank you, and he stayed away from the lines when he could - he didn't understand them, no, but those instincts had never been nursed.