Snake-oil salesman

At first she doesn’t look at him, won’t even lift her gaze to meet his feet. Her eyes wander elsewhere, as if the scenery is more interesting. Though really, she much rather be somewhere else. And it’s obvious in her posture, and if by some sudden action she’ll flee down the mountain’s slope without warning. But Kipling remains poised to meet him, even as he ventures closer with hot sarcasm which makes her upturn her muzzle, a weak frown pulling on her muzzle even as she refuses to look at him—just from her the corner of her eye. A pinch of guilt accompanies her, but she silently fans another flame, she’s simply too proud to own up to her own actions.

“Why?” She spits the question out, and the action is so abrupt her muzzle swings suddenly so that her eyes catch his. A familiar frustration cuts through her prissy act, because Fang has become master of making her bubble over with only a few words. “What did you come back here for? You’re not staying. So...” She scoffs—this whole meeting is ridiculous to her. How is he still even apart of this pack? Who allowed him the cross the borders? At this point, she feels she shouldn’t be forced to confront him. And she’s angry, but it’s not at Fang, because throughout this whole endeavor there’s been that prick of doubt. She knew better, she pushed Fang when obviously she wasn’t up for it, it was her fault—she knew, but she’d never admit it out loud.