Bearclaw Valley eyeshine

Aventus arrived, tall, dark, and carrying the severed head of a mountain quail by the long feather on its head. Behind his impassive silver eyes lurked an unfamiliar glint brought on by new scents wafting in from far beyond the valley. 'Tis the season, and those pheromones called to him, compelling him to wander and making his blood run thick in his veins. Lately, killing lesser creatures was failing to appeal the way it used to. He wanted something more.

Those silver dollar eyes raked hungrily over the newcomer, the deep grey of her coat, the white accents. Aventus frisked his tail but did not say a word. Instead, he tossed the quail head up into his mouth and crunched loudly on it, considering the wounded Æsilfír and Merrick both, though his eyes never left the latter even when he swallowed it and swiped his bloody tongue over his jowls. The scent from outside did not belong to her, but his gaze and belly both smoldered as though it did.