Phoenix Maplewood home is what you make of it

brisbane couldn't really explain why being called sir weeded it's way beneath his skin with obvious displeasure. manners were something that their mother'd imparted upon her children and for the most part it'd stuck. not perfectly, mind, but it stuck all the same. a velveteen, dark grey ear twitches as she gives him a name in exchange for his own. heloise, spoken upon her approach that brought her ever closer. heloise, the coywolf parrots her name back at her, testing out how it sounds coming from his mouth, committing how it feels as it rolls off of his tongue.

he ghosts back a step as she approaches the bush. it's small and not very high and though they know one another's names the fact is they're still strangers; and it's not that he's afraid of her doing something but there's a certain circumference of space he likes to maintain out of warrior's honed instinct. her remark that follows her plucking her own berry from the bush earns her a low snicker of amusement from the blackshark. are they? i always thought the saying went the best things in life are sweet. regardless, he knows that the blackberries will never be sweet — even when ripe they're a tart fruit.

at her inquiry, brisbane casts a look around them, a bit deeper than his normal sweep — those quick sweeps were done subconsciously, a routine check to asses his surroundings and recalibrate his posture if needed. nah. i don't really live anywhere. i'm more of a ...vagabond.