The Floodlands I'm doing fine, trying to derail my one track mind

wren. and like the little bird which was her namesake, she flitted to and fro in an effortless dance that set colt's blood on a low boil, back-burnered for the time being by his usual suspicious nature. women didn't just vibrate out of trees and begin their flirtations.
for colt, everything was transactional. but eking out of her what she wanted could prove to be a pleasure of its own. "they'd rightly think i was a blame fool, fallin' into yer web," colt smirked, testing wren with a little flattery. the tips of his own ivory fangs glimmering for a moment as he took another step.
his turn now, to reach out, to touch her hackles and take in the motes of scent which delineated where she had been and perhaps where she would go.