She’s already been spotted. It is too late to backpedal, and the huntress isn’t certain pride would allow it. Her eyes shift beyond the trail, then back to the man, irony sounding now from the maternal voice which bids her to look back and not forward. But the huntress knows better than to rouse spirits with ingratitude.
A dull wind catches between herself and this stranger, curling his scent toward her. She can smell his oils on it; cedar and sweat, waterfowl and flesh, and is vaguely aware of her own scent beginning to ripen to a sweeter point now as the trees bleed. There is fear in incurring his wrath but she takes the chance, lifting to all fours and burring out the thick, silver tail. A crystalline glaze falls from her sheathing.
“Not want bird. Let pass,” Iglux̂ makes her voice sharp while her throat shakes from the nerve, eyes pointedly avoiding his own.

