Hushed Willows he walks on the thorny warpath to the heavens

she would have walked into him, likely if he wouldn't have announced his presence to her with a chuff. her path was on a dangerous collision course with his own and the firebrand watches, warring between his natural territoriality, cautiousness and slight amusement as she draws back and greets him, her greeting sounding both surprised and a bit automatic. his ears cup forth atop his skull and he studies her once more as she takes in his scent, as told by the flare of her black, leathery nostrils. he pays acute attention to the details of her movements both from instinct and warrior training.

dialect was not something that vilkas spent a lot of time studying — words could easily be lies and he was much more adapt at reading body language than he was vocalizations and thus he was much more likely to trust body language and non-verbal communication over words — but her dialect is well rounded, polished in a way that could be easily considered elegant. which does not make him inclined to trust her. though he prefers non-verbal communication — reverting back feral beginnings when words were not something their species had — he was ( perhaps surprisingly ) well-spoken. anyone with a silver spoon born in their mouth like that could easily weave words to manipulate and deceive.

she is not the first to ask him if he's from around here — he thinks back to the inky woman lily for the briefest of moments — and thus he assumes it's a common question asked when meeting new wolves. "no." the firebrand responds simply. eventually there might be a day he could answer that he's from somewhere around here but for now he's still a foreigner to these wilds.

vilkas does not linger long. after a few more minutes of awkward conversation the firebrand departs and leaves the woman to her own devices.