Sunset Valley Harvesting

blue eyes do not waver. she laughs, twisting away, light and sharp all at once. his ear flicks. she has called him a warrior more than once now, though he has told her otherwise.
there comes a low noise, a grunt of indifference. stop calling me warrior.
he searches her as she goes, back turned, paws drifting with ease. and like a man, cannot help but to briefly admire—though it is fleeting. he searches for something beneath her mirth. half-truths, riddles—these things do not bother him—and yet his teeth grit. if she is lying, it will show in time.
his nose lowers to the earth, he draws in the scents that linger beneath damp leaves and thawing snow. the woods are rich with life—pine, wet bark, the musk of hidden prey. all good things—but not what he needs.
but then his breath draws deep, pulling in the faint, acrid note beneath the earthier smells. jimsonweed. still distant, but near enough now to follow. the northman lifts his head, blue eyes cutting through the trees.
"this way, witch." she was not the only one who could name call.