The sunlight that streams through the trees paints dappled fragments of brilliant peachy golds along the damask patterned tiny wolfs' form. He wanders without real aim, pastel gaze occasionally sweeping to and fro. He memorizes the paths, the patterns. The gentle breeze that rolls through the grass and the way the wind winds its' fingers through the tangled locks of the willows. A few delicate leaves catch on the breeze and roll in wild tumbling circles across his line of sight, and for a moment, the pink blush of his nose follows them. What an absolutely picturesque day! The crisp breath of autumn has finally touched the land and that meant winter's grasp wasn't too far. Which meant... "Well fuck this," he scowls, muttered under his breath as dainty paws pick and pluck through the over-tall grasses,"Where the actual fuck am I supposed to get anything around here? Hey!" He snaps, harshly startling a poor squirrel who was minding it's own business,"The FUCK do you think you're doing there? Give me that!" With an impressive leap, he clamors up the bark of the willow and the squirrel, shrieking in terror, tries to scuttle away. Alas, to no avail. His jaws sink into squirrel flesh and he rapidly worries his head, causing the death shriek to warble into a somewhat comical squeek as a pile of acorns come tumbling out of a hole that is...far too small for them to fit.  

Like a shark or a gator, the primadonna simply tosses his head back and allows the squirrel remnants to slither down his gullet. ....Well, perhaps the snack may cure some of the hanger. Does it? He sits, thinking on it for a moment as his pallid eyes remain somewhat loosely focused on the acorns.

....Hm. No, still annoyed. Regardless, he begins to gather the acorns for some purpose--whatever it is, he does not say. But they aren't alone in his pile of new things-- a series of late-blooming flowers, autumnal colors and petals all aligned in a haphazard pile seem to be his current occupation. His expression softens just slightly, whiskers curling inwards as his brows lightly pinch.  Perhaps he could gather enough to make valid wound salves to last through the winter... But, then again, maybe he couldn't.

Venom made her way forth into the world beyond the Empire’s borders for the first time since wounding her leg. She could manage to put weight on it at this point, having been told she was more than half way through the healing process at this point. She could be more mobile and more confident on her current ability. Staying close to the borders she sought out the place where she’d broken her leg.

The Empress wasn’t sure of the whereabouts of her Shinobi, but with the proximity any of her wolves could be at her side in moments. Venom was not one to be scared easily, and her confidence was obvious in the way she carried herself despite the limp in her gait. She also had her giant squirrel with her, and while he couldn’t fly his vantage in the canopy was invaluable. As she limped along Poison returned to her with a warning bark. While she would find no danger in the wolf up ahead the squirrel had ample reason to be alarmed.

Venom didn’t try to coax him down as she continued forward to find sight of the wolf with his devoured meal. He had much the same build and look as a Klein, and though she knew she had hardly met all of them she had no doubt this was not a long lost relative like Blitz had been. The young Empress watched him with her warm sunset gaze but her expression held nothing to read as she looked him over. His attention on a small patch of flowers, something her mother would have been much more interested in than she felt.

She said nothing while observing his movements, far enough away she wasn’t a threat but close enough to be considered rude to not announce her presence.

While he may appear a pretty princess--and perhaps, holds many of the same accents (do not dare place a pea beneath his bed or his inability to sleep would be the least of ones problems), he certainly does not have the same concept of...manners. He is not so unobservant--in fact, quite the opposite, and the over-sized squirrel seems to catch his attention before the presence of the wolf that follows it, a scowl creasing across his face as one lip ever so slightly lifts in a measure of disgust. He seems to be waiting for her to properly introduce herself, and when such an introduction does not come, he meanders on over towards her on surprisingly dainty feet with a just-as-delicate trot to his person, and brings himself uncomfortably close. He seems careless of her size in comparison to his own--not a tremor, not a hint of fear behind those pallid eyes. Only annoyance. He assumes she's not hunting him-- if she were, she would have been making far more an effort to conceal herself-- and instead, he speaks in the same tone of voice he'd used with the squirrel. That is; a compete lack of fucks have been given.

"Can I fucking help you, or you got a staring problem?" Though his accent is decidedly and very light French, and could have even been sweet were he a softer person, instead it comes off as just barely not a mobster, staring down a subject prepped for interrogation.  His eyes quickly flash over her, and it could be mistaken for classic 'elevator eyes', had he not stopped to examine her limb for a moment too long, perhaps.  Tender, is it? Her weight isn't resting on it properly. "Unless you're here to start some sort of shit, make yourself useful and start plucking the petals off of those flower heads." he states, gesturing a wee paw in the direction of the floral pile. Well? "Get to it."

Her silence is met with interest and as her own eyes rove his smaller form the man looks to her quietly before making an approach. Venom had no worry, he could try but there was no way he’d manage to harm her. He was confident and beautiful, but as he spoke his boorishness became obvious. He was unrefined and classless, not that she would have expected any different from a lone wolf. ”No, no need for any help from you” Her voice was sickly sweet, a veiled insult as she lifted her features and took him in once more. He had quite the mouth on him, and he obviously had no idea who she was. Perhaps that would make things interesting.

She was never told what to do, or hadn’t been in a very long time. An amused smirk played as a delicate expression as the stranger barked his demands. Venom was in good humor and wouldn’t deny him outright, she was too curious about where he was going with this. ”My services aren’t free,” though she had more than one concern with her assigned duty this was the gripe she’d follow. ”What do you have to offer for my time?” She questioned him with a slight tilt of her head.

As if he has time to play games with fancy-ass 'holier-than-thou' strangers. "Fantastic, then leave me the fuck alone or do something besides taking up my personal space." In truth, he wouldn't have cared who she was. If she had introduced herself as the goddess of the firmament, he would have told her to move out of his light because she was ruining his tan. He didn't, for lack of a better term, give a shit. "Do I look like I pay anybody anything? No. You get nothing but a 'hey great job' and perhaps you can pat yourself on the back. I don't have time to sit here and piss around with stilt-walking figureheads. So either work, or keep moving." The satchel slung about his neck and shoulders smells strongly of antiseptic and the caustic smell of fermented plants. Probably filled with various items of healing-- and if this is indeed a medic, then he lacks a bedside manner. Still, there is something about the fervor with which he works that lends to the way with how seriously he takes his job, even if it is a thankless job.

"You got some fucking nerve hobbling your ass around here like I couldn't grab a stick and whack that leg out from under you before you could wobble your way back to whatever hole you crawled out of.  Who the fuck do you think I am, some two-bit asswipe of a doctor who pretends to look at a wound and says 'hm yes, thats a hole in the skin'. No. I'm fucking Cyrill godsdamned Embla." Not that his name meant much in this new land, but his prowess in both healing long-term and working quick on the field had been well-known in his homeland and a few other places in which he'd traveled. Sure, if you happened to be in the middle of a war and you needed a limb amputated--and you needed to live-- Cyrill was the one you'd want around. Bedside manner be damned, he was a hell of a healer. ....But she wouldn't know that, and at this point, his annoyance was at having to make a name for himself all over again. " 'What do I have to offer for my time' my ass." he muttered,"No, don't rush, I'll do it myself." Petulant and annoyed, scouring past her like an adult trying to fathom the audacity of an out-spoken child, sarcasm lacing each and every syllable.