Chimera Fields pastel ghost

Shit. He doesn't know how to respond. What is it that one usually says upon meeting a stranger? How's it going, a cursory remark on the weather, maybe, have you seen any prey nearby and hasn't it been cold as hell recently? 

Gavrel's mouth opens. It closes. It opens again. There's a little something in your fur, yes, that's what he'll say. Something charming and harmless.

Your fur's all fucked up.

Almost immediately, his face pales with horror. This always happens; his words barrel through whatever paltry filter he attempts to set up, and he, the incompetent sheepdog, the corraller of absolutely nothing, can only watch.

I don't bite, he tries to amend, fails miserably.

He approaches, scuffing his heels against the dirt, not wanting to seem too excited at the prospect of social interaction -- though the lashing of his tail betrays him.