Rosewater Oasis i'm just a realist, friend

What Tumbleweed saw was a worn traveller, revealed through the softened sound of roughened pawpads, blunted claws, and patches of fur that revealed scarring with the flex and pull of hardened muscle. He looked like the sort who could settle a dispute with a twitch of his lips, and yet a truce was volunteered as he drank. Tumbleweed invested trust in strangers, often; he found that if it was offered first, it was often returned. 

His head dropped, and he laughed quietly, breath feathering the beige fur of his chest. He shook his head, and looked up, one eyebrow arched. "Only in fantasies, it seems," He said. He had plans, and ambitions, but few had shaken out into something tangible. "Might surprise you, but I don't get a lot of visitors, and even fewer stick around once they've taken what they've come for."