Firefly Glen Value

the woman turned to him and latched hold of his figure with eyes the color of blood orange. his own lightless yellow gaze roamed the dusting of russet that was sprinkled over her top half before settling on the sharp pair of eyes that peered at him. the girl's tail waved at her hocks – a display of friendliness – but the wildcat did not return the gesture. at least, he did not feel as though it was a necessity. instead, tusk prowled forward and closed the gap that had spread between them before lifting his crown upward and offering her a surly expression that seemed as though it had made a comfortable nest in the shape of his long features.

“evening,” the savage offered in a gruff tone. he drew his ears forward to meet whatever she might offer to him next while holding his frame defensively neutral. tusk was not there to conquer or to harm, but he had made himself into a brutal creature only by treating each encounter as a potential risk to his own life. the wildcat was both heedless and vigilant in his behavior. it had suited him well up to that point; he had not yet lost something that he could not replace, and the scars that he had obtained had healed over well. besides, the wolf he had met on the mountain had spoken of the locals in that land. from the mountaineer's mouth, the wolves who inhabited the land were passive enough to have lost the calling of the beast.