Ravensblood Forest torture saints with a single glance

a name is given, but his expectant pause is met only with silence, a slight upward tilt of her chin. donovan asks next about her limp, which, admittedly, she'd not hid until she had noticed the man's presence. tongue moves over her fangs, considering. "I lived," she drawls, "the rest does not matter." there exists some vengeance she will, one day, carry out, but it is not this stranger's concern. 

the stranger has drawn closer, and while she does not shift, the warlord uses the opportunity to draw in his scent. "your pack," she begins, testing, "why have you left them?" there are a multitude of scents there, faded, along with something she can not name; heat and red sands.