Dawnlark Plains Sometimes, the last thing you want comes in first.

When a voice called out to him, Artyom turned his head to settle earthen stare on a pale face. He studied her features quietly, gaze lingering curiously on the particular marring beneath each of her mercury eyes. An odd thing, he observed, and found himself wondering after her mental wellbeing to have allowed such deliberate scarring to otherwise pretty features.

This concern intensified as she drew closer, seemingly recognising him. Gilded ears flitted backward, confused, before they pricked forward again to accompany the unsure cant of his muzzle. "We?" Artyom blinked beyond the stranger's alabaster shoulders, finding no sign of her alleged company. He even shot a fleeting glance over his own, and found no one approaching from the rear.

How very strange.

"I believe you have mistaken me for someone else," the ranger told her pointedly, "but maybe I can help?"