The Bracken Woods there is nothing fragile about you

footfalls approaching draws the cursory graze of golden gaze; touching upon the woman dressed in mottled grey and browns with her body posture — raised, curled tail — informing him that she was someone important. a beast of a hierarchical home, he acknowledges her proud display ...but does not submit. instead, he scents at the air again, the tickle of her scent is wild and though the scent of others are present they are faint. far too unstructured to be a pack wolf. in the feral clutches of being a dispersal wolf he is free of the tethers of structure and obedience — and finds himself unwilling to offer it to a just met stranger.

a studious tilt of his head given; as minuscule as the twitch of tail against hocks. he wants to ask her if it's such a big place — he wouldn't know — how she knows he's not from around here; lest she traversed it all but her words leave bambam to assume such isn't the case. he doesn't respond; at least not in any sort of verbal manner. he gives a low, grunt. neither an agreement nor protest to her assumption, however correct it is.