Quinlin is silent on bare feet, darting over fallen logs and the leaves of changing seasons, trailing the vague shape of a winged figure through the forest on paths known only to them. They blend into the shadowy landscape, dark greens and browns, mud streaked across their face, gold glinting like droplets of water in the sun upon their ears. When he stops, so do they; scrambled into a tree to sit, and observe stalk. Predator and prey.
They watch uncertain feet, the familiar pattern of unfamiliar faces in their wood. movements, awkward, none of the grace they have learned amongst shadow. He is curious, and his intentions uncertain, so they have not sent to shoot him outright, which Quinn will call mercy, as opposed to boredom in a haphazardly enforced routine. Perhaps he is confused. Lost, maybe. It does not matter. He does not belong here regardless.
He turns his head, and in an instant they have left the tree, to launch themself from one branch to another and then directly on top of him, planted firmly, if not so gracefully airborne.
@flaxgolden
