Shadowwyn Moor beauty was your armor

i could have, ridgeback admits in agreement when the other male finally halts — a nose length from one another. if there is discomfort in having a stranger so close to him: to the vitality of his life; his throat, which is concealed with an instinctive tuck of his chin — he does not show it. instead, there is only that dastardly and cheeky amusement. but where is the fun in that? though, truth be told, if the table were turned and it was his hunt that got interrupted he would've been angry. possibly would've even started a fight; yet, fascinatingly enough ( at least at this moment in time ) there was no indication that the stranger was going to pick a fight with him over it.

and despite how ridgeback himself would react ...can't help but think that the vole — tiny as it is — is not worth scrapping over.

what, pray tell, were you planning to feed with that? ridgeback asks, motioning with his muzzle towards where the vole had ultimately disappeared somewhere to the safety of the underground. it was a meal suitable for only a cub ...or the truly desperate, he assumes. fiery orange gaze studies the male as he takes a few steps back, opening up a rift of space that slowly eases the tension in his shoulders; a warrior's shoulders. or was it the chase you were enjoying?