05-26-2010, 01:32 AM
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<3
A stray breeze brought the man's scent to her, a definite shock from her reverie. She turned slowly to face him, startled as her gray eyes had to sink closer to the ground to meet him properly. She hadn't seen someone in their four-legged forms in so long, much less the mid-way state. In France virtually no one used their other forms; some hunters found it liberating to resort to the feral ways, but most would rather play with the toys of humans: bows and arrows, traps, and (when possible) guns. It had never been well-regarded to spend time in Lupus or Secui mostly because that time was seen as wasted; Optime's versatility could benefit far more.
Despite this, she did not think any less of the man with the doglike guise—earthen tan tones dusted with cream, grey, and black in the most distinctive pattern. He did not even need to say any words to her; Smith immediately regarded his presence with a dipped head, lowered ears, her gaze skewed off to the ground to the side. With her averted eyes she did not see him as the words came to her, and perhaps that was for the better—the kindness in his tones surprised her, and it showed in those dark-rimmed and expressive pools. Whenever she had come so close to trespassing before in her travels, she had either been warned or chased by passersby, never greeted so amiably. And by the man—this Vigilante Haskel—who called himself the King of a land called Cour des Miracles. It was very unexpected, and very unorthodox from perspective of where she had served for so many years.
And yet the very name of this place brought a flicker of a smile to her thin lips. Though the wolf named Isra had spoken the tongue of Arabic as her own, the woman, Smith, who stood here spoke French most natively. "The court of miracles," she murmured as her smile faltered with a single chuckle. "Greetings, Monsieur Haskel. I am called Smith Hajara, and I ask your pardon for my proximité to your lands." She paused, glancing toward the coast and the lands that the King called his own, before adding with some hesitation, "I know it is a strange question, monsieur, but do you have any type of smit'y—of, ah, forge—in your territoire?"
<3
A stray breeze brought the man's scent to her, a definite shock from her reverie. She turned slowly to face him, startled as her gray eyes had to sink closer to the ground to meet him properly. She hadn't seen someone in their four-legged forms in so long, much less the mid-way state. In France virtually no one used their other forms; some hunters found it liberating to resort to the feral ways, but most would rather play with the toys of humans: bows and arrows, traps, and (when possible) guns. It had never been well-regarded to spend time in Lupus or Secui mostly because that time was seen as wasted; Optime's versatility could benefit far more.
Despite this, she did not think any less of the man with the doglike guise—earthen tan tones dusted with cream, grey, and black in the most distinctive pattern. He did not even need to say any words to her; Smith immediately regarded his presence with a dipped head, lowered ears, her gaze skewed off to the ground to the side. With her averted eyes she did not see him as the words came to her, and perhaps that was for the better—the kindness in his tones surprised her, and it showed in those dark-rimmed and expressive pools. Whenever she had come so close to trespassing before in her travels, she had either been warned or chased by passersby, never greeted so amiably. And by the man—this Vigilante Haskel—who called himself the King of a land called Cour des Miracles. It was very unexpected, and very unorthodox from perspective of where she had served for so many years.
And yet the very name of this place brought a flicker of a smile to her thin lips. Though the wolf named Isra had spoken the tongue of Arabic as her own, the woman, Smith, who stood here spoke French most natively. "The court of miracles," she murmured as her smile faltered with a single chuckle. "Greetings, Monsieur Haskel. I am called Smith Hajara, and I ask your pardon for my proximité to your lands." She paused, glancing toward the coast and the lands that the King called his own, before adding with some hesitation, "I know it is a strange question, monsieur, but do you have any type of smit'y—of, ah, forge—in your territoire?"