Deepwood Weald the scavenger feeds in hum of low sea

he boasts of false intentions, promises her end would have long since come should he have wished it. she is unfaltering, still, even as she notices how heavily the silence bears down around them, their utter solitude as they stand together. company would bear her no advantage in any case; she does not know of any one of her own kin who would be bold enough to assist her, nor is she a stranger to the violence of men and wolves.

weakness. she must not show it, though every nerve screamed then to "flee, girl, flee!" no, she is still, baleful gaze set on him. "yes," she agrees after a time, "not stupid." she straightens, tail shifting upward as a precursor of her intent. a shift of her pelt, a tightening of her muscles. 

"goodbye wolf." she veers to his left, seeking to pass him by with as far a radius she can give, auds set to tilt toward him. light, quick steps, though she does not dare run until she is perhaps 50, 60 tail-lengths away from him. when she is - should she go uncontested - greyjay slips just as easily into a sprint, becomes a quick-winged shadow cast low to the forest floor.