Bearclaw Valley the sleeper

a customary greeting. hi, she echoes, not needing to mimic the syllable nor the tenor of his voice. it is a word she knows well. she understands that there is power in words, but to her, it will always feel needless. there may be power in speech, but true weight rests in violence. blood is her currency.

he speaks but does not come much closer; Avicus cocks her head, then nods again. slower, in invitation. if he does not follow along, she'll continue along the border without him. 

chin tucked, she stares—and then bristles, muscles suddenly taut, as a squirrel races past her, startled from a nearby tree. it is followed by one of its comrades, cheeks still bulging with some sort of tasty treat. Avicus glances at the young man, eyes flashing.

hungry? she asks. without waiting for the answer, she wheels and takes off toward the running duo, wondering if she'll soon feel his breath on her heels.