Firefly Glen It’s a red tide, Lester.

Belharra supposed things could be worse as she snatched another mouthful of snow. She could be dead (and she suspected a certain fellow in Neverwinter wanted her dead, maybe), or worse, alive and not able to move (suspecting not even a whit that this was the fate to befall that enthralling creature Rhode). Or she could be even eating piss-stained snow. Thankfully, this mouthful was as crisp as the others, though an ashy taste fell to her mouth as she saw a stranger approach.

Thinking it was Mal, Belharra straightened up and issued an uproarious battle howl, ignoring the comment about her packing snow in her mouth. "Back for more, are ya, ye git?" She challenged, tail swaying as she took a swaggering step forward. She soon realized her error. Other than patchwork fur, there was nothing at all similar to suggest this girl was Mal. Heh, maybe the snow has gotten to her brain, or something.

Settling with an effusive smile of apology, Belharra sized up this girl: petite, patchy, and pretty. Oh, she was no sore thing for the eyes to thumb over; Belharra rather liked that dangerous red of her gaze. It wasn't something she was used to. "Oh, yer not the brute I was thinkin' of. Apologies, my lady." Belharra stuck a forepaw forward and ducked her head in a deep bow. "Name's Belharra McKinlaigh. As for the snow, well, beats an empty stomach, don't it?" She flashed her most winning smile then, waiting for Miss Winsome's reply.

Pleasant as this encounter was, after some talk Belharra bid the speckled lady goodbye. After all, if she stayed out here all day, who would lurk Neverwinter and cause havoc in her stead?!