Grouse Thicket Where the wild things are.

caligula twitches. his mouth still tastes of blood, if he concentrates too hard – and if he concentrates too hard there is more blood than just that of the grouse, than that on his mouth, and before he can draw himself back into the memories he digs a tooth into the soft black of his lip until the pain narrows his focus back to the moss.

nothing else.

“no.” the word is delivered with more emphasis than most; his ears flicker uncertainly. he…has hunted, yes, but… “no, just…what i need to eat. to survive. it is not…i do not like it.” and even with that – nobody needed to hear that about him. not the least a stranger he had known for only a handful of minutes, pleasant(????) as she was…trying to be?

“i am. sorry.” caligula lowers his head. looking past her, gaze just clipping the edge of her shoulder – nowhere near her eyes, but enough to keep watch. what would – to get away from – “if you…what do you do? with the herbs?”

yes. he relaxes minutely, shoulders loosening a fraction. this is surely how conversation is supposed to go.