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fortune from the grave
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Locke. She dipped her muzzle in a “well-met” fashion, but didn’t verbally return. The white hybrid couldn’t honestly say that it was a pleasure, given her current state — and she would have rather have been alone in it; but it couldn’t be helped, and she wasn’t about to make enemies simply because her mood wasn’t at its peak. She let the silence draw on, but hardly took her eyes from the tall, gray man, continuously wary about his motive and presence, though he seemed nice enough.
Not entirely unexpected, he voiced a rather personal question. This privacy breech, Winter very-much considered a test of her current weaknesses. Defensive, her eyes narrowed, but she wasn’t a liar by any means. Something like that, she said, eying him as if she thought he might know about the incident. It happened some time ago — I’ve had to re-bandage them this morning because several hours treading salt-water has made them spongy and disgusting. She thought to tease him with a childish “wanna see?” but Wintersea wasn’t open like that yet.
Not scouting my weaknesses are you? she asked bluntly, her blue eyes level and patient, and her tone surprisingly light despite the accusation behind it. I can very well hold my own, weakened or not.
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