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

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Grievous was terribly amused, and simultaneously glad she did not come to him for a fight. If he had been forced to put her down, then his little game would have been over before beginning— but there was still time to render her disheveled, he supposed in wry silence. His ears pressed forward even as her fell back, sure where she was not, and eager to lead where she would follow. But despite her deferential body language, she opened her mouth (as she had the first time) to breed conversation between them. “I have already,” he responded, his tone fluid where hers rightly remained terse. “Thy smell is of the mountains— and of fire.” The latter scent was his impression of her rather than having detected any trace of where she had been. There was no ash or heat on her either, but that mattered very little to the wolf who tended to associate newer acquaintances with things and instances he thought they related to. Little did he know, she had been born to ground with flames underneath.

“Grievous,” he responded immediately in this rather slow, resonating voice that belonged to no one else. Instead of asking hers, he ponders aloud: “Did thy have a reason to address me? I hath my own opinion on the matter, but first I might like to know thine truth.” Her standoffishness meant little to him as long as she brought him no harm, but he wondered if she regretted calling out to him now— or if she still felt the same quiet marvel as he did for her.
 

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