this old dark machine

Bright orange-gold eyes flashed in the direction of the creature who had hailed him. He settled on a shadowy female who was approaching with a seemingly pleasant expression on her face. Kierkegaard stopped dead in his tracks and the fur along his back bristled with the small breeze that seemed to brush against him. Flicking the tip of his tail once or twice, he lowered his head towards the earth and frowned softly at the female. “Evening,” he responded in a gruff baritone. His eyes searched her, wondering if she was going to ask him to leave their borders. The dark female’s body language did not suggest that she was aiming to be rough with him, however. So, the ashen brute held his ground, wary of this stranger.