If he had been anywhere else, anywhere near his home at the creek - than maybe Njal would have been confident, as he perused the rocks and spotted the golden woman. Not now, though. Not here. This was no his land and that made him the trespasser, the vagrant worthy of prodding and annoyance.
The woman cleared her throat softly, but as that was the only sound aside from a few tumbling stones, it carried eagerly across the mountainside; she watched him, and he, looking sheepish and out of place, lowered his head in an apologetic expression of submission. Still, Njal's tail would not placate her; it remained coyly raised as a remark towards his pack-bound situation. Njal was, after all, the Delta of Swiftcurrent.
He watched her for a moment longer, lingering for a reason he could not pinpoint within himself. And then, trying his best not to rain stones down upon her resting place, he began to slink away. The man's body was built for the mountains, but his lifestyle along the plains had ruined whatever natural prowess he may have had; leading his steps to be crooked, clumsy things. He managed to forge a path around her - but only part ways, before a stumble made him slide a few feet too close. The dust rose around him in that instant, and Njal scrambled for purchase among the boulders and dried grass.