The Heartwood Why does thou sit upon my grave

The damned beast did not simply stand there. No, he fought back. She could have almost admitted she enjoyed the retaliation — craved it, actually. As his lips curled and his teeth snapped in echo of her own, a crude glimmer shone through her gaze.

Think, think! Silence demanded. He was thinking hard, but not hard enough. It was taking too much time. Why was his memory so desolate?

   "Khasni."

Ah, yes. There it was. The realization. A long awaited smile formed upon her lips. He remembered.

   “What tricks have you learned in order to find me — to invade my dreams?”

Now, now, little hound... If I gave away my secrets, I would end up the creature to cause your demise. A jest; nothing of truth. It was nothing short of simply asking around and tracking the familiar scent, but nonetheless, she found pleasure toying with him. 

   “You are a proper witch now then?”

The smile faded rather quickly into a tightly drawn grimace. Witch. How cruel. The nickname had to go. Now.

Muzzle jolting, a crack-like sound split through the air. Her teeth came close to biting a sliver from his snout, but stopped a centimeter away from doing so. I am no witch, brute, She snarled, saliva turning to froth against her tongue. Never call me that again. From there she could have easily made her point, but just for added measure... Are. We. Clear? Up in his face now, a pointed, broiling stare waited expectantly for a response. If it wasn't the right one, she would be sure not to miss with her teeth the next go-around.