Firefly Glen [BWH] chemically calm

Oh? Caught. He hadn't tried to hide himself, so that was of no consequence. The way she looked at him was inviting, and the way she spoke—empowered somehow—reminded him of his own mother, or another of the polis. Someone of good blood, he presumed.

He smirks, the corners of his lips curling. The scents he carries have done their job.

What is that? Tatlım. His common tongue was spiced like Macedon. He prowls closer, observing her—unafraid to meet her eye, given he was not some servant or underling to her, or anyone of this space. He settles nearby on his haunches, sitting straight-backed.