bad decisions make for great stories

click, click, click, click, of thick claws against cold stone, echoing down the hall and bouncing off the walls of his little alcove. He could hear the last traces of her rich laugh as she stepped into the light. Plain in pelage and sturdily built, not unlike the wolves that roamed his homeland. Pretty waifs didn't weather northern cold all that well. The dame wore the dun coat well, treated it as an accent to the marvel of her bravado and charm. He could see it in the tilt of her lips as she grinned at him and drawled lazily about drinking. A woman after his own heart, just a few years too late for him to really do anything about it. The corner of his inky maw tipped up in a tiny, lopsided smile. One massive paw lifted to beckon her closer, noting the tension in her shoulders as she held fast in the entrance to the cavern.

"I won't bite if you won't," the words offered like upturned palms, a supplication to ease the nerves. As he rolled slowly to his paws, he left the opened bottle where it had previously nestled between his wrists. "Help yourself to that one, if you'd like. I'll get a new bottle." he rumbled, the wry grin already faded away as he turned his back on the golden fae and rifled through his belongings. Rightfully wary, she mentioned a lack of favours to return for his hospitality. Burly shoulders rippled with a half-hearted shrug. "I've been a nomad for most of my life, I don't expect riches." he assured her in a rough voice, lifting his magenta gaze from the pile of bottles and jars as he reemerged with a fresh bottle of mead. "Perhaps you'll return the favour in the future." he added, this time offering another small grin that flashed bright fangs for just a moment.

This time he grabbed a well used sheepskin from the back of the cave to lay on as he settled back down beside the fire, bunching it between his elbows as he rested on his hip and elbow. Belly bared to the gentle flicker of flames, he let out a soft sigh. A practiced gaze flicked over to the fae, whether she'd chosen to sit or stand. Appraising her, and the way she held herself. "You don't spend much time in the north during winter, do you?" the words left his dark maw with all the characteristics of a question, but it wasn't really. He could see it in the wrinkle of her brow and the way she was holding herself braced against the breeze that might waft in.