He is ever on the hunt.
Today it is a fresh one—but he cannot trace her scent, cannot pick up the greens of the Falls, the salt of the Edge, the chill of the Basin. He does not know her face, that sleek body of hers, marred and ruined by splashes of ugly white—she is no kin of the Throat. Who, then, is she, and what purpose shall she serve for him?.
Food? Prey? He is not sure yet.
Ka’Ora weaves through the trees, a grey shadow, and her eyes dance and twinkle with something. Master, listen, she pleads; the wind sounds different here, the whisper of leaves against leaves crooning a rhythm she can keep. There is music here, a tiny voice upon the wind, the creaking branches. It is faint but she is certain of it, for it causes her chest to soar, her gentle wing-beats to fall steady and light as she weaves the canopies above.
Master, of course, ignores her. His attention is not paid to the wind, however pretty it may happen to be that day. He is thinking of—
Food? Or prey?
He must decide.
“Miss?” he calls—adopting a certain lilt to the smooth rumble of his purring voice; he is trying something. Donning a hat, bearing the overcoat of a concerned sir.
He comes upon her from shadow; the sun is warm, descending slowly, for the days begin to lengthen and the basilisk can tell that spring is days away. “Miss,” he says again, coming close enough to see--blue eyes, once again.
(All of them, all of them blue eyes. Perhaps she is a harlot, as well?)
“It’ll be cold soon,” he says, genial, something reproving in his voice, “Frostfall nights do are not kind to a lone traveller. Do you have a…den to return to? A friend who will meet you?”
Competition? Desert? Someone who will come looking for the corpse?
He wonders if he is hungry; he wonders which kind it is. He looks into those startling blue eyes with earnestness. He is glad to be here; he wants to help.
[OOPS YOU THOUGHT I WAS POSTING ROS HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA]
"talk talk talk"
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