Swiftcurrent Creek Indigo

Amid the birdsong, his voice drops from the sky, striking the tops of her ears with its firm command. She wrenches her chin from the creek, hackles bristling in the subsequent reactions of shock and alarm. Her wide gaze catches first on a sable-black silhouette before drawing north towards his eyes, reflective and startlingly lambent in the settling dusk. He approaches slowly, in a manner which exudes dominance over this place.

He is intimidating. She stiffens.

Unable to intuit his movements, Eset stands wary of him. Would he sense the years of servitude upon her, in the way she casts her eyes low? She would not pass for an aristocrat to avoid the brunt of a cruel regime, but perhaps a lady, if her mannerisms were dignified.

The hebsut brings in a slow breath and bridles taller, dressing in an imitation of elegance. She replies with a low croon of her own, in his own language, but sharper. Edged where it should have been smooth. Not the pretty song of a wolf, but the dithering voice of a coyote.