Deepwood Weald Manaʻo ʻole

Moving, moving, moving. When wasn't Georgia moving?

It kept her active—but more importantly, it kept her safe. It kept her alive. Now, she was humming a little tune. A southern ballad playing within her mind. A tale of her home, of her mother. The woman pranced. Tail flagging above her, confidence running from her paws, sparking each time they drummed against the ground.

A scent. A stranger. She stopped immediately, ears swivelling, searching, scanning for sound. Fur shifting along her body as she started to move again. His smell rode the winds, strange, speaking of a home far away. And then he saw it: white, caped in mauve. Orange, honey-like eyes. She watched him from afar. Observing. He moved through the weald, seemingly looking for something.

Georgia held herself low, careful as she moved forwards. Slow. Precise. Her approach was almost that of a huntress, but she wanted to get closer without being noticed just yet. Decide whether or not this stranger was worth having a chat with. Find out what he was looking for, maybe. All depending on what he did next.