Valley of Gold it can't kill me

as towhee has become wont to do, she takes to traveling when things trouble her. it could be taken as running from her problems, but she did not intend to leave dutch and moonsong — at least not without a proper goodbye.

no, she uses this time in isolation, the miles between her paws and moonsong to consider.

to realign.

ghost soars above and a bit ahead of her; recon.

he stays in her line of sight and she keeps an eye out for any of his tell-tale signals to alert her to what she cannot hear; though through her deafness, her sight and smell are both even more keen to compensate.

they are not far from the place where she'd found and saved ghost; and for a brief moment towhee wonders if he remembers. if he feels it too; that thrum deep in the marrow of bones that feels a lot like destiny.

her steps pause and she takes in the sea of golden plants 'round her; feeling something akin to peace settle like a blanket on her shoulders.

she would be warned of his presence, the bird would see to it. yet, still flea-bitten and bitter, the man put on his most charming smile and tone voice as he called for the girl out in the wheatfield.

beautiful morn', ain't it? relaxed, he sauntered her way, tail limply swaying below his sharp hips.

someone approaches.

ghost dips in the air, signaling it to towhee. but she almost didn't need him to. the wind shifted and she catches a whiff — a pungent, musky odor that turns her stomach and has her holding her breath.

jr turns then to face him, golden gaze unflinching as she takes him in; though something about the charming grin mixed with his appearance makes her skin crawl.

to his question, she offers a small shrug.

he didn't much appreciate her lack of forthcoming, but the man were ever patient with prying open young women.

whatcha doin' all the way out here, sugarplum? he eyed her build. yet to fill out.

dispersed? his tongue swept his whiskers.

sugarplum.

the term sits like oil slick in towhee's stomach; and discomfort slithers up her spine. she stands a little straighter, chin lifting a little higher. immediately, she doesn't like it. the term. his presence. how she feels about this interaction.

jr gives a small snort, as if to communicate: that is not my name, though her paws remain still, not wanting to soil ptero in this stranger's presence.

there is a small part of towhee that considers she's probably being unfair, but the larger part of her doesn't care.

no, towhee shakes her head at the question that lingers in the air, read from his lips. no, she wasn't dispersal.

that so...? she's a mute, he decided. that didn't bother him none. in the back of his mind was always a shadow, one the Good Men couldn't quite scrub from his skull. she were quiet, too.

he was willing to excuse the little miss. wasn't her fault she seemed so aloof.

you from 'round 'ere, the man stepped nearer, head lowered to her level, tail swaying, teeth on display. or passin' through?

jr's suspicious, perhaps by nature, perhaps because she's definitely judging. regardless, she doesn't feel comfortable answering. the truth was, she was further away from morningsong than she probably should've been — and that only left her further vulnerable.

she lifts her chin slightly; unwilling to answer, giving him an unyielding stare in the hopes that it would communicate that she didn't think that was any of his business.