Deepwood Weald the scavenger feeds in hum of low sea

And while he hungers, it is a hunger of a different sort.

But he yields, if only because he knows not to means an end to this chance meeting, this opportunity to sate a curiosity that picks at him like a days old scab ready to tear. So she is petite and wiry, an embodiment of a coyote who leans one way and another at the same time. An amused huff leaves him at the tail end of her commanding tongue; the plume is whisked away swiftly with the turn of the wind.

"Had I wanted to hunt you, I would have," and how he had her kind before, and recently. Moonspear was no stranger to the scavengers, but even they had been fewer in number with the calamity that had ravaged the region. But he did not fault her for having a wary eye—it was wise of her, really. She had the cover and the advantage, while he stood against the starkness of the open. And he risked the chance to survey their surroundings as nonchalant as he ever is and was, and finds that they are alone.

He lacked the saccharine voice, but the words eked their way out anyway.

"Instead, you've caught my attention and so I must wonder what a darling gem like yourself wants with me. Usually the sight of me is enough for others to turn tail." And normally, he would have been inclined to give chase... but Moonspear is far away for all intents and purposes and there is little point to expend the energy better saved for an easier prey. His gaze rounded back to her, concluding: "But I have the sense to know you're different somehow."