Ravensblood Forest the blood and the crow

The wind drifted to him with the scent of the other, but it was the voice that drew his attention before he had chance to explore further. His muzzle canted back to regard the approacher, and pushing from the tree to firmly place four paws upon the ground once more, his own form stiffened as he regarded the other. The stance of the stranger was neutral – the question innocent enough, and shaking his fur to rid any tension he felt, the Mayfair kept his own features unreadable, his tail drifting languidly through the autumn air. “I intend for it to be,” he answered, his deep rumble kept lower. “Constantine Mayfair,” he introduced, deciding to skip unnecessary conversation.