Totoka River Hold my hand, it's a long way down

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She refused to join him, which was far less surprising than her addressing him as she had. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, if he had made a mistake— if she was far too mistrustful to be of any use to him— and Grievous huffs out his apathy, so that he might yet goad her into boldness. For despite her straight face and lack of a quiver, the only thing her lack of approach made certain was that she was afraid. She might have called it wariness, or proper caution, but such things were only needed when one didn’t think they had the advantage. She obviously didn’t believe in her own prowess, if she was too wary to brave the prone male’s invitation for a decent sniff.

“Apparently not,” he snorted, his tail ceasing to wag and his expression falling neutral. “This distance hath already fooled me, for I thought thee as brave... worthy, perhaps. But now thy fear blinds me.” Grievous turned his gaze away from her, to the river, indifference swelling in his chest as surely she was too young— too headstrong— to hear any truth in his impotent venom. “Thy loneliness will suit thee, as long as that fear of the Others remains.”

She was capable, and wild— these were not things he disputed— but for how long did a wolf hold on to its pride without constant socialization and other bodies to best or possess. He attributed her particular tactic to her age, and assuming her haughtiness and preference for solitude did not send her skittering away, Grievous imagined that he had much to show her.

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