Blackfeather Woods Angel of small death

He piqued her interest with his wordless stare, looming and immovable. The words he did speak chosen with deliberation, reserved until she'd come close enough to feel his breath as he spoke them, warm, low and rumbling against her ear. 

He didn't feel like a stranger, not when he did that.

She was curious. He interested her. Or, perhaps she simply remained shackled to that desire to be seen. Like tar, it stuck to her fur and kept her in place. He had made it clear in the air he left between them, his presence, an unmoving bastion, he saw her. 

A grin slowly formed, a fang caught on her lip; she regarded him in quiet appraisal, satisfied with his answer. Roan. Hm. So you do speak. She let out a breath of a laugh, letting him linger for a moment before slinking around his other side; she didn't overstay her welcome, and limped a pace away, not letting him out of her sight.