[/html]His question went ignored by the woman as she listened to his words. She had been alone, many times, and could not say if it was horrible or not. Sometimes loneliness was a comforting thing. She found it to be that way when she was alone in the Wastes. His words turned to the wolves, not understand why they hated them. She sneered, a topic that she could give answers to but wouldn't.
He sat down, pulling out some sort of book and something to draw with. She raised an eyebrow, curious as to what they were exactly. Paper was scarce, as were any formal writing utensils; "What are those." Her skull was forgotten as she stood, hesitantly, and neared him. Not too close, but close enough to watch his hands. His sketch was good, though she preferred her colorful landscapes over the gray-scale.
He admired painters, as he himself was unable to work the tinctures easily. Her crimson eyes darted from his face to the sketchbook, and back again. Perhaps there were redeeming qualities in the stranger, perhaps he was not such a horrible wolf. But they were all monsters, every one. Even her beloved father, king, God. Monsters. How could this one be different?
Silent, she tucked her hair behind her ear, drawing closer without concern. He had not been violent yet, and she was certain he would not be by that point; her comfort rose and she did not mind the vicinity of him, though she still would not trust him entirely. "You draw well. Perhaps you could learn to paint." Words of encouragement, for a fellow artist. Words that would never have come had he been aggressive. He was a stranger, but he was not a volatile one. She even smiled, a subtle gesture that proved she could be amiable, if even for a brief moment.
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