Blackfeather Woods Angel of small death

Once she'd made her circle, she rounded back to the front of him, a curious tilt of her chin cast his way. She wondered in the moment, what he wanted from all of this; but she knew now that asking with words would've been counter-productive. Her eyes followed his own as they roved across her; pale gold lingering where eyes always lingered.

She was used to being stared at, honestly. She'd learned to see past the polite veils often layered over every trespass. She was something to be pitied.

Curious? She asked lightly, her own eyes flicking to her leg as she flexed it up and down, letting her paw skim the ground again while she stood.