Tormented Tarns footprints on the sand

He wanted her - she could feel it! In the way he stayed. But he pulled away and she leaned into empty space, her breath hanging on the still summer air.

And she knew: this one was different.

She studied him with a tilt of her head.

More noble than many men of these wilds, she mused, loud enough for him to hear, others would have made a meal of me without thinking of what came next. She admired that he did not. She stepped closer again, but did not touch him; merely bowed her head to sniff the air before him, searching out any sign of affiliation beyond the crags and cliffs.

She found none. 

Who are you? she finally asked, and whose?