Sun Mote Copse somebody's calling, trying to track me down

arcturus turned to leave, and found himself nearly buried face-first in gilded fur.

he stepped back, his goldenrod gaze flickering from the bulwark, to the pair of eyes belonging to said bulwark. niamh's means to delay him were unexpected to say the least, and arcturus was just shrewd enough to realize she was messing with him -- for fun.

he couldn't say he liked that realization; his eyes fell sharp upon niamh, studying the grin that persisted across her gold-plumed face. he was not often the subject of torment, and finding himself at the end of the bully's spear didn't sit well within him. he had learned long ago, having many bullish members for family, that sometimes being direct was the best way to de-escalate a situation.

out of the corner of his gaze arcturus watched as the wren feather fluttered off in a light breeze. he returned to niamh, ignoring both her suggestion, and the open-ended query. "why are you messing with me?" his tone was bald, and his eyes clear: conveying he was measuring every iota of facial shift in her expression, to better understand what made niamh interested in being so antagonizing.