Silvertip Mountain there isn't anybody, darling

She was incredibly still in the moments he drew closer to her. Not even nature could elicit movement in her; the wind dare not touch her, and so the world was motionless except for his soundless drifting. It was only when he brushed against her, salmon pink against solid black, that the world let out a gentle sigh when she did not react violently in turn. Once at attention, her ears shifted and she seemed to fall at ease as her gaze swept to him, even when her head remained forward.

But at last, she turns her face so that it is wholly in his direction, nostrils flaring. He predicted good things, she presumed by the sweep of his tongue, and she was thankful for his expression if it, but perplexed; gentle displays were not her way, nor the way of many around her. Lasher was the first of his kind. To express vocally and physically. She could not rebuke him for the gesture, and so she did not, though she licks her chops and looks at him. Like her mother, she can do little else than that, then; there was not much too her brilliance other than her outrage, her cause, her willingness to smite and destroy.