Deepwood Weald with your sick head

Bishops nervousness fades steadily the more comfortable it seems this stranger female gets. He could tell how taught she was as he’d been trotting up to her earlier, but now, as she realizes he has no malicious intent, she clams down. Bishop cannot quite feel the same. He’s nervous to be around her — or well, anyone at all really. 

Yet, he feels his hackles lower and his tongue set comfortably in his maw after she speaks of peace. He nods back to her, worry in his eyes. “Peace be to you, sister.” He hums deeply back. 

His nervous mannerisms don’t fit his massive form, nor does his timidness. Whatever saved him from death made him this way. It desires blood and makes him claim it when it decides it’s bloodlust hasn't been satisfied in some time. It’s getting old already and he wonders when it will completely consume him.

He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to be a mooch and ask her for her hard earned kill. He’s a grown man dammit and he shouldn’t be over here stealing other wolves food. In his defense, she did offer and if he is anything, or if he was anything, he used to be polite. 

He nods once. “I am a bit hungry if you find yourself generous enough to share.” He hums softly, almost hesitantly. He doesn’t want to intrude on her day too much.

At her other words though, he licks his chops again. He is hurt, but he’s not sure if this is curable. He doesn’t want her to get involved in the mess that is Bishop. He’d spare her the time and recourses. Hopefully whatever is inside him spares her too. 

“I’m...I’m not hurt. Thank you for asking.” He decides to say. He’s not lying. Physically, he isn’t hurt. It’s just all mental and there’s nothing she can do for that sadly.