Bearclaw Valley [m] burning skies

towhee's sense of smell has always been sharply keen — an attempt to overcompensate for her lack of hearing — and she notes the difference in the sharp wintergreen tang of the air. she smells his warm musk, inviting despite that she'd never much noticed it before ( beyond the obvious that he smelled clearly like a wolf of bearclaw ).

and then he circles into her line of sight, approaching.

tvar.

sharp golden gaze rakes over his body with an appreciation that surprises her. her guard falters, like an invisible shield flickering as it wars with whatever force moves against it before it drops. towhee had never noticed anyone, really. never interested in more than proving herself.

she watches the puff of his chuff unfurl in the cold air before them, and feels a low fire stoke in her belly.

everything about what she is feeling is unfamiliar. uncharted territory. her tail lashes the air once. twice.

her choice.

towhee's instincts take control of her until she is naught but a puppet on marionette strings — steps drawing her nearer; gaze assessing him. a low noise of approval rumbles in her throat as she makes to circle him slowly; a would be brush of her side against his own, if he would let her.