Barrow Fields lay your weapons down

Artaax's expression held none of the annoyance he felt at finding himself in the stranger's company, but still he noted how the female's face mirrored his internal sentiments. She adjusted quickly, but it was too late to avoid sending his mind straight to making an assumption about what had just happened in her head. She clearly had been annoyed to be interrupted in whatever she was doing, until she got a better look at who had interrupted her. This pleased the white lion, and he felt his own irritation ease. He didn't have time or patience for very many, but he could spare some for those who appreciated his physical magnificence.

"Hunting," Artaax answered, his voice a deep, soft rumble, "I am feisripa of Drageda. We claim the cliffs further North on the coast." He peered stoically at her, breathing in her scent and learning what he could. She smelled of others, but not many. She smelled more like earth and trees and journeys than anything else. "Where do you come from?" he asked, rather obscurely.