Blackfeather Woods the unending fight, to call yourself alive

She was an odd one. A shadow that did not use words — but like him in that way, so perhaps not so odd. Perhaps she belonged here with them, thought the ghost. She spoke her name and Titmouse felt his ears twist towards her voice; she understood the request and — oh.

Finally, the boy took notice of her posture shifting. It happened so quickly, so fluidly, but Titmouse was more attuned to such things than most. He had to be. Words failed him too often. Without further consideration he moved towards her — bold, forthright, and his tail arched high like a white flag of peace, of dominance.

He investigated the scent of her; tasted her breath with a soft probing of his nose in to her space, and pressed her further: crowding her just a little bit as he investigated, wondering how the shadow would react to his presence. If she reacted with teeth he would merely leave her to Zeus.