"Looks like a fish. Smells like a fish. Bet it flopped like one when it was alive, too." The coyote stomps a (comparatively) tiny paw, as if to emphasize her point. It doesn't so much as dent the icy earth below.

"Furless?" It scoffs, offended, but there is no denying the winter-tinged tremble to its voice, nor the frosty chill in the earth which saps the warmth from its skin. She is a desert girl, born and raised— this she knows in her shriveled heart to be true. But the desert's people, like the God she once revered, abandoned her. And so she too has left them behind, those rolling dunes and sun-bleached eyes. She does not dwell on it long, keeping the beast's gaze with no shortage of skepticism.

"I've got plenty of fur, thanks. And even if I didn't—" It'd be none of her business, none of her damn business at all. But she does not spit her venom. "Coyotes are adaptable creatures, see. Nothing like foxes. As the temperature drops, my fur'll get thicker."

She grimaces, leaning away as that hulking creature chews with half-open jaws. She would much prefer hare, she thinks, or beaver. But beggars can't be choosers.

"We're scavengers too, y'know. Taking what big guys like you don't finish off."

They are nearly nose to nose now, and the sheer size of the damn thing is almost incomprehensible. A hulking white beast to block out the sky. Shoulders wider than any mountain. Wide black nares blow warm breath on Häti's face, whistling past her cheek fur. She tolerates it with a squint.