Otter Creek Blame it on my own sick pride

Her eyes were opened just a crack as she drunk the cool water, lithe yet powerful frame bent down as gracefully as her mother yet she'd much rather resemble her father. not in complexion, of course not, simply in behaviour. Her peripheral vision did she spot the man rising from his kill, supposedly looking at The Night herself. Nyx did not follow his movements, too content on drinking as much as she could before she had to speak. When the man did speak, she found it rather offensive in a way, but not in a way she could not handle. She raised her muzzle from the water, still dripping, and fixed her breezy, emotionless eyes upon the stranger.

And who are you to judge our methods? I certainly did you nothing wrong. She reasoned, expression forever the same; unmoving, pretty, but cold as the winds up north.