Wapun Meadow Down my thigh

The scarred man repeats her name and she smirks easily. A mask of confidence drifting over her face as she flicks her ears towards him. 

Merrick, of Ursus.

He grins, she grins. Not interesting enough for an Omen? She doubts that. He looks like an omen all on his own. With a hide of scars and cyclops gaze — he’s seen battle she hopes to never be a part of. Seeing it? Perhaps. Being in it? No, that’s not her thing. 

So she laughs. “You look like an omen, great Merrick.” A swish of her tail. “You’ve seen battle. I have not.” She trails off and thinks for a second. “Well–, I have, but not the kind you desire. I like to stay on the sidelines.” Her bloody eyes light up with the thought of her interest: toxicology — poison.