She's not as patient as she wishes she was. Wind whistles as it rolls along the snowy hills, earning a shuddering huff. At the heat of her body, mist turns to dew, beading along her whiskers and setting the darkest shades of fur alarmingly alight with the scant glints of moonlight that just narrowly escapes the suffocation of that overcast.

Like a beast half her size, Benji slinks, head swinging low and her step cautious. The quiet is consuming.

She wishes Zharille would rage or hate at her again.

If only just to rid her skull of the silence.

This is my land.

Sure, in the same way the land is everyone's. They're all here. They're not leaving.

"As do you, Zharille," she says. Now with no item of desire, she finds it... tentatively safe to approach the other. Benji does so with a low waving tail, tall ears fanned out to the sides of her head all contemplatively. "When you speak of land, what does that mean? I'm to hope that doesn't mean pack territory. If it does, I've bad news for you, sweetheart."