Deepwood Weald Manaʻo ʻole

His eyes settled upon her. He was wordless. Georgia only stared back, before words begun rolling from her lips; she could not stop them. Only hear them play back within her own mind.

You lookin' for somethin', hun? She heard herself say. And for a moment, she wondered if she should regret opening her mouth. Lemonesque hues scanned the stranger, but there didn't seem to be anything too discernable about him asides from the particular colours of his pelt.

But then she was speaking again: Maybe I could help. A strange humility. Sense of duty, maybe. Or, perhaps she was just an offering of peace. Trying to make herself useful, as to not be seen as, a) a threat, or b) prey.

She blinked at him. Waiting.