Ouroboros Spine v. two feet standing on a principle

The dove's wheaten shoulders ease, a raspberry tongue swiping over her chops as the dark man prowls away. She's silent as the pantherine form of the huntsman fades with distance, lost amongst the greying shadows of the wood. There's dismissal in his words, the yearling offering only another blink of her boreal gaze as their conversation comes to an abrupt end. He's strange, she decides of this man who would lunge at her one moment and speak of bartering stories in another. But she's known worse -- a thought that inspired her to set aside the encounter entirely, ignoring it in favor of returning to the lower reaches of the Spine. She'd acquired a fair amount of mud in her search for the herd of elk. Despite how cold the water would be, the birdcaller looked forward to purifying her coat in its frigid, invigorating embrace.