Shy Deer Steppes sweet blessings

roan watches him, dark, save for the slight furrow of his brow. feline in form, but not in nature—there’s a sharpness to him, a knowing, a prowling sort of awareness that makes roan wonder.

where does he come from?

the man moves with purpose, an invitation, perhaps, or a test. roan doesn’t know which, but he does not look away.

what could make anything exciting? his voice is low, gravel-dipped, as he watches the way iset carries himself—like he’s already won something roan hasn't realized he was competing for.

the glint in the other’s eye is unmistakable, teasing, daring. roan only blinks once, then, with a quiet huff, shifts his weight back.

depends on the company.