Moonspear Like a toreador

Her optimism grew to see the lightness of his step, and the way the plume of his red tail swayed. They were well-met, she thought, as she ambled willingly forward to meet him, faithful that his intentions were as true as he made them to be. He had a kind look to him, and in spite of the scars, she didn't take him for a scrapper. There was a mildness about his lips that proclaimed no devil, and a softness to his navy blue eyes that made his gaze featherlight. 

She turned to hover her parted lips over the fur along his shoulder, tilting her head so he could investigate her scent as well. He smelled of earth and of glacier water, of a wife and what she imagined might be this year's children. Traces of something herbal floated about him, and the wounds she saw were healing, but recent. Her tufted ears trembled when she spied long, raking lines in his fur. A large cat, she figured, and she looked over his hips toward the mountain that rose behind him. Doubt crept in when she wondered how many mountain lions prowled the area. 

She stepped back and looked to him then, blinking her large, silverish owl-eyes at him before she gave him a friendly bob of her head. "Peace be," came her high, faint voice.