Fox's Glade silvertongue

The burgundy woman conceded that she did not feel strong, and she cast her gaze away from him with a dejected expression. It seemed that she was at a loss, so she turned his statement against him and fixed him with the gold of her gaze. The dull fire in his own eyes roamed across her face and he felt his limbs quiver at her direct inquiry. If she should offer him her own moment of genuine emotion, he imagined that he should return it in his own way. The crow moved forward slowly and pushed to nestle his muzzle underneath her chin in a show of comfort. The movement was soft and careful, for he was not certain how she would react to such a gesture.
 
With a soft sigh that escaped through his slender muzzle, the thief flattened his large ears to his head. “Tadec is flawed, yes,” he informed her in a soft timbre. “But… not strong.” The strength of his soul was surely weaker than her own; he could almost feel the fire in her gaze. Indra had a beauty about her – shattered, but resilient and fierce. The long-legged halfling could only long for the type of force that she carried within her very limbs. He was somewhere in the in between; Tadec belonged not to the fiery light of day, nor the creeping dark of night. The broken little coywolf was made of the late dusk, the early dawn.