Whitefish River and the ships are left to rust

“Moreso an ankle-biter, truthfully,”  the silver mused back, mind reshifting moons-ago memories to the only communal hunt she’s ever taken part in: that of the Diasporan bull. With the words came a wry curl, thumbing at the corner of her shorn lips; and it felt unusual, smiling. To have such a response elicited, one that wasn’t a thin and farcical mockery that didn’t reach her melancholy eyes, it was... “Have you been a hunter, for long?”

The mere exhange before them of acceptance without further complaint was so effortless, so easy, that the resentful lurch of uneasiness nearly went unsnared within her innards.

Instead, Aurëwen took in the flex of musculature beneath both hind and buck, momentarily removing herself of the predatory in favor of entering into a phase of pensive appreciation.  “I fear my specialty was once rabbits ... perhaps, I will try my paw with rodents.”