Phoenix Maplewood i could write novels with the words i could never say to you

The voice startles her to attention, not having heard or smelled him beforehand. She swings her head around to look at his form. He is older, based on her first look, but he does not quite seem as old as Grayday (though age hadn’t greeted her former friend very well) but her ears droop against the back of her head. She is silent for a long moment, having to repeat the sounds of his words once or twice before she realizes the weight of what he’s said. Her brows knit together, glancing away as she tries to decipher which way is north, but she shrugs it off.

“I’m not very good at catching birds,” she says. She’d never successfully taken one down and she doesn’t feel like wasting what energy she has left. In the meantime, she scans the brute a little longer before looking away once more should that be the end of their conversation.