Permafrost Hollows salut i força al canut

Majorca watched as the beast’s apprehension slowly melted away and he spoke plainly, the thick accent of the common tongue staining his words. At first it offended her ears, and the feline’s velveteen ears fluttered against the drawl of it and she was instantly irritated by the grating of it. It was no help that the meanings of the brute’s noises were lost upon her. She was a woman raised upon one language, and even that was a tool that went largely underutilized.  

— and, ugh, he spoke so much!

Perhaps it was that the words were meaningless blather, wasted upon her ears, that made her disengage; but her interest very quickly lifted and peeled away at the edges. Still as ever, and without a single golden hair out of place, Majorca’s salmon pink nose twitched as the cat decided this was too much effort for a creature that was no real threat. He seemed to understand the power dynamic at play, better than most; he was not one to be worried with. So the gilded apparition made to unceremoniously depart, leading the way with a sweeping movement of her ductile shoulders — but was halted when there was a phrase that registered in her lexicon.

“Good hunt,” the catalan echoed in her honeylike tones as she turned to face the brute once again, vowels all ossified and pronunciation all stifled as the woman tested the sounds upon her tongue. Good was a sound made when one was happy, and she knew hunt because she consistently warned interlopers not to do just that. If the dog believed he was going to have a good hunt here, then he was mistaken. Her response came quickly and sternly.

“Non.”  

The catalan was nearing the extent of her knowledge common tongue, so ’no’ was all she could say; it was all that needed to be said . If it had anything to do with hunting and with her, then she would not entertain it. Then, the brute forgot himself and moved towards her and in that same moment her taut upper lip rippled back to reveal just the tips of her fangs — extraordinarily piked and fantastically sharp — and a large, saucerlike paw swiped at the air in front of her. Back off. It was more of a warning than it was any real attempt to harm the wolf; the thing was clearly on edge, which meant she frightened it, and that pleased her. Hers was the power.

“Why here?” the cat asked venomously, grasping at the common tongue and failing to find it. Her agitation was becoming palpable.