Ravensblood Forest Wer um die Göttin freit, suche in ihr nicht das Weib

her brow raises a fraction, though the rest of her remains eerily still. it is not the first time she's heard that descriptor. he draws nearer, shrinking the distance between the both of them. near enough to lunge, if need be, and once more does her gaze trace him, noting the old wounds she could strike if need be, wondering at his stamina. there seems no need, not yet, but preparedness was a trait most often lacked by those who failed to emerge victoriously. 

in answer, she steps forward, drawing near enough to brush her muzzle near his shoulder, scenting the scent the wind had been keeping from her. she ought to know it, should this man seek to make himself a leader, one day. withdrawing, she steps past him, gesturing to the wood beyond, and back to him. she wants a name for this place, these bleeding monoliths.