Blackfoot Forest Aislingean

Kinloch. It’s a name that evokes the rugged North and an ache for the cold as summer casts its heat upon the valley. Strong and elegant, suiting well the silver stranger as he slides his kill towards her.

Dangerous, she thinks. Her mewling stomach threatens to devour the meat just as urgently as she desires. But she refrains, if only because he’s called her ‘miss’ and she suspects a feral display might horrify the well-mannered man. She takes a dainty bite instead.

“It’s your scent, actually,” she reveals between chews before pausing, an embarrassed flush sprawling over her cheeks. She needs to stop talking about smells. “You do not have any of the valley packs on your…musk.” She grins, she can feel there’s sinew stuck in her teeth. Charming.

She swipes her mouth with a tongue and offers the remaining rabbit to him before she finishes it off herself.

“Planning to stay long? I could introduce you to the packs, if you like,” she offers, concluding it’s the least she can do after he’d been so kind as to share his catch, and tolerate her awkward company.