wilting flowers

The femme rose quickly, almost as if startled. He could see fear in her eyes as her gaze fell upon him, drawing back in a submissive manner. She even started to stumble over her words as she forced a smile on her face. Being able to observe more of her form now rather than a ball of fur, he realized that she wasn’t okay. She was disheveled, as if she hadn’t been able to groom in ages. Her expression was forced, and as his ears flicked back he realized that she likely wasn’t just afraid of him, but someone who might have hurt her. He was aware that the Armada had slaves but they tried to build them up from what he had seen. Not drag them down so far they looked as though they hadn’t eaten properly in a long time.

He had a choice to make. If he left her here, she could be left waiting for ages. But… if he took her to the Armada… Charlie drew in a breath, lifting his gaze as he approached her. “I don’t know who holds you currently, but if you stay out here with them you are going to die. You are not cared for.” There was concern in his blue eyes as he spoke. He might have been being firm, but it was because he was worried. “You are going to get up, and follow me to get some food. Then we are going to the Armada.” He was sure she would protest, likely out of fear for whoever held her before.

“And if anyone dares try to take you, they will answer to my fangs.” He motioned for her to rise with his muzzle. But would she?

"Speech," 'Thought.'