Swiftcurrent Creek Out in the garden

Her dark crown raises, her youthful features wide and open with surprise; the witch hasn't quite mastered the art of masking her emotions just yet. 

For a heartbeat she expects Constantine - the only male she's met amongst the Creek wolves - and nearly greets him in the old tongue. Her words are halted before they can be born by the difference in their aura more than their appearance. He is not Constantine - nor could Iseabail ever again mistake him for the Creek's leader. 

He is silver where the Mayfair is dark and his amethyst eyes are frigid enough to make the cheerful girl subconsciously uncomfortable. 

Dark ears lower with submission automatically - a habit more than anything by now. Her attention drawn fully from the dying fish, she chuffs in much the same manner - too shy to break the silence in the wake of a male much older than she.