Blackfeather Woods the unending fight, to call yourself alive

He advanced as she rolled, finding the display to be curiously effective in assuaging any lingering doubts he held. So she was a soundless creature — whether it was by choice or by nature, he could not fault her for it. She smelled of the woods primarily and nothing else; good health abounding, youth. Titmouse continued to crowd her even as she lingered there on her back, and with a step too close he was looming over her, sniffing and probing with his nose until he was satisfied; then, feeling fully content with his inspection, he rumbled a soft note in the back of his throat. It came out as something different from what he intended — a crackling sound that bordered on airy nothingness. He coughed, stepped over her, and with a whisk of his tail he settled to a more neutral posture so that she would know he was finished. She could stay.