The Floodlands With a melody from the mourning band

Kuasak smelled him before she heard him, and heard him before she saw him—he was an impressive beast to look upon, and Kuasak was at once interested in a base level. Was he born of these wilds? He did not look soft; he was cut from an impressive cloth, she saw—her eyes sought scars, tales of battles he had partaken in within his lifetime. He was older and experienced both—though she would surely smell young, she hadn't the innocent eyes a yearling ought to have. Her stare was knowing and certain. She had seen what life and death both could do. And Kuasak was keenly aware that she had the potential to be the bringer of them both. There was no questioning the latter of the two. Children and adults had been felled by the savage without regard, all in the name of duty—a duty she was unshakably devoted to. 

His posture was one that invited, and Kuasak's own was rigid and dominant both as she finally continued to wade in his direction. To be ankle-deep in these waters did not deter her; Kuasak had been trained in oceans with violent swells, and these were still. But she was observant—venomous creatures might lurk in the floodlands. Kuasak's flicking ear was a reminder of how keenly aware she was, though the rest of her seemed to heed solely this stranger. 

Kuasak stilled just before him, ears cupping forward as her own plume, held proudly above her hindquarters, wondering if he would be receptive to an investigation. They were both loners, and here Kuasak did not presume to be in charge of him in any capacity, though there was a distinct desire to rein him in to her. He seemed strong and wild, and before him stood a woman utterly strong and savage in pedigree, feral to her core. She sought cues his body might give her—for in that, Kuasak was more eloquent than many.