His world was ever-dark and oh so solitary, rarely pierced by even the faintest glimmers of hope; and when such optimism did indeed enter his mind's eye, it was nearly blinding in its intensity. He was unused to being shown kindness, even empathy, and often his harsh demeanor provoked the complete opposite reaction. Slowly his posture would relax, his muscles easing as he would slouch minimally, still standing a few feet from her. The yearling was not an enemy to him, but he would be hard-pressed to consider her anything more than a stranger.
And yet his curiosity had been piqued, and he would remain for now. A smile would paint his rugged features, morphing his otherwise sullen expression into something much more pleasant. "Yes, the danger is what makes me wary," he would admit softly. He was weak, it was obvious by the state of his body, and even his vacant gaze seemed somehow tired. "I do not even remember what snow looks like." He had been so young when he had been afflicted with the disease that has quickly destroyed his vision. The appearance of snow had certainly been one of the positive aspects of winter. The bitter cold was horrid, and the scarcity of prey was often just as bad as the ruthless weather.
She spoke her name, and a smile would once light up his features, though the expression faded just as quickly as it had arrived. "And I am Typhon," he said softly, though the lake was quiet as it was -- neither of them were forced to raised their voices. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Seraphine."
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