You're a mean one..

Loping through the copse, Leobold took no heed of noise he made. The forest was thick enough, dense enough, that he wouldn't see another until he was swiftly upon them, and rather than outright tumbling into some unknown creature, he'd much rather they come for him or avoid him, if they were so inclined. He'd found that being callous with his mannerisms in a crowd was the easiest way to make it part for him, and as he braced himself to leap again -- over the foliage and whatever hidden critters dwelled beneath, the sound of words filtered into his ears.

He adjusted accordingly after his next graceful leap, not being at all subtle about his approach. Some things called for some amount of ambiguity; he wasn't certain this would be one of those things. One could argue that the unknown always called for suspicion, if only to provide some measure of safety. Leobold, however, always approached with the utmost confidence -- never allowing doubt to creep into his mind that the situation would crumble. Those who kept conjecture so close were not welcome into his life; he didn't need that kind of negativity during his journeying. It left a sour taste in his maw.

Coming upon the two women, Leobold stopped a healthy distance away. He was well-traveled enough that he knew what ghosts looked like; particularly when they chose the eyes as their home. Their names, he didn't know, but one she-wolf was a sunset given life and the other was the myriad of tan and black hues. He said nothing and merely observed for a moment before stepping forward and executing a dramatic bow, tail wagging in subtle lashes behind him. "Mademoiselle," he began in French, standing again to his full height, "Avez-vous besoin de service?"

1. "Miss. Be you in need of service?"