Phoenix Maplewood half-savage and hardy

The young bear received a polite echoing of his moniker and then a compliment from the other male. From the dark female in the background, there was nothing but vibrant watchful eyes. Bronte cast her a glance; the red wine of his gaze lingered on her features for far too long before he returned it to Rannoch and the winter colors within his coat. Then, the other male cast a questioning glance and made mention that Bronte didn’t smell much like the nearby territories. The dark DeMonte nodded his head softly, the same smirk still lingering on his dark muzzle. The umber color of his eyes seemed to flicker between Rannoch and the quiet female before he answered, but he offered the information with only a modicum of concern.
 
“I’m not,” his voice was graveled in his response, but he shrugged his shoulders to indicate the lack of importance. The dark female didn’t follow up with a question, or a name, so Bronte drew his tongue across the hairs of his muzzle and sniggered softly. “I’ve been a wayfarer for a year now. Going where the trail leads.” His youth allowed for his pride to swell at having been worldly before most his age. Bronte looked to Rannoch expectantly; surely the other man was a traveler himself.