Whitefish River paper planes

The others step was silent. Were it not for the wind now being in her favor as she moved away, she would perhaps not have noted his following, too keen on arriving home and beginning her movement. For a minute longer, she presses on; but the scent does not change. It even grows stronger. The furs on her nape prickle, and it took the entirety of her mass two seconds to shift around entirely to respond to her pale follower. It was true that they stuck out like a sore thumb; he was an easy target to lock onto, white and bright in the darkening of the hour. Tonravik charges toward him like a bull. Her intent for now was merely to (attempt to) bowl him over and dominate him. xxxxxxSilence was something that often made others speak. Her lips coiled and rolled backwards, her yellowing fangs (perhaps yellower than most her age due to the excess blood she had intentionally shed in battles that others may not have experienced by two) revealed to him, parted slightly in the promise to give his throat a kiss should he not use his seconds wisely. She was not sure if she had knocked him over or even made contact in her violent haze, but she kept her defenses with her; her eyes were narrowed and she attempted to retain her balance, lobes melted to the top of her head (though they thrust aggressively forward in forewarning prior to the attack at all) and jaw hovering over her own throat protectively, head tucked slightly as to protect the regions her jaw could not.