Sleepy Fox Hollow my tarnished coat of arms

her's was not the reaction poet was expecting. he recoils at the impudence in her tone, in the spit of the 'mister' — making the saint-forge feel like he's being mocked. his ears burn and his shoulders stiffen. he hadn't thought he'd been rude in his warning: just factual. a subtle way to let her know that if fiona came along, she might meet the small woman's teeth.

lonesome? questions poet, who cannot help but bristle at her hostile tone, despite that he tries to smooth his hackles down. he tries, for better or worse, to be smooth. i ain't on my lonesome, darlin'. though they weren't much of a pack ( yet ), his was not the only presence, nor the only scent. there are others here, in this hollow with me.