Stavanger Bay Don't touch me you peasant

He remained on edge, his form tense as a cut of obsidian as she passed around him, unwilling to provoke him or aggravate him with any sudden movements. The young jackal kept him in her peripheral vision in case he lunged, but her assumption had been correct- he seemed more keen on standing over the remnants of his kill. And Chacal didn't even steal a glance at it, so he might not feel so threatened. 

She was aware she was being watched as she drank but her posture remained nonplussed; unphased by his show of hostility, as though he'd spoken in a language that she did not understand. She flicked an ear toward him when he shook out his pelt, the sudden flurry of motion caught her eye but she kept drinking until he spoke to her again. He fretted over his pelt, and eyed her up. Chacal got the impression he was confused by the lack of reaction. 

When he spoke again his voice wasn't kind, nor were his words, but he'd calmed significantly from before- enough to merit a civil response. When she spoke, it was in song. A low, alto tone, a simple melody. I had a thirst for water, She chimed. You smell of de sea; I thought we would be- bretheren, She said simply. By the way he'd been preening his pelt earlier, though, she assumed the salt that clung to his pelt had begun to make him itch. But I will go now; leave you alone now.