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She fidgets a little beneath the compliment, which makes Sverke want to offer more. The tipping point from collected and cold to flustered - where is it? Does he have to laud her icy gaze, or wax poetic about the way she bleeds into shadows like silk in water?

She agrees: trouble. Sverke hums his affirmation, a ripple through his shoulders as he settles deeper into his poise. No hunt, then. Ah, a shame. Sverke is patient, but not well-attuned to stillness. He'd have liked to seen his new friend dressed in the crimson of a fresh kill - compare the color to the petals adorning her now like a wealth of jewels.

He doesn't quite catch the sound of the fraying edge of her sigh, but does hear the silence that stretches companionably between them. His cheek cushions against the ridge of his forearm. Quiet, Fa'liya had said, and Sverke knew when to shut his mouth. He's rewarded with another question, one that makes him grin: all teeth, a flippant and boyish smirk tinged with that hint of something far older and hungrier he has a hard time keeping a leash on. Oh, I am trouble. Never let it be said he didn't offer fair warning. The rising excitement in his demeanor settles again, ruffled fur flattening into folds of navy linen over his frame. But for you, Fa'liya, I can be quiet. If that was really what she wanted. Maybe a stroll through the maze dripping with flowers. Maybe just a quiet, meandering conversation. Maybe she'd just up and leave - find her quiet in solitude.

his grin gives her pause. there are altogether too many teeth in it for a creature offering peace, and fa’liya regards him with mild uncertainty. he is trouble, he says. willingly, even proudly. she wonders what sort of trouble announces itself before arriving. the worst kinds she has known were seldom so courteous.

you are trouble, she repeats, testing the declaration against his easy manner. her ears turn forward. but you can be quiet? there is something almost humorous in the contradiction. she studies him another moment, then allows her gaze to wander toward the flowers gathered at the foot of his stone. perhaps he is making a joke. she has never been particularly gifted at recognizing them, especially when spoken in a tongue that makes her feel perpetually a few paces behind everyone else.

you can speak, she tells him at last. just... slow. a little motion of her muzzle accompanies the request. i not know all your words. an embarrassing admission, though not one she can afford to conceal if they are to continue talking. fa’liya has been learning the common tongue for some time, and still there are days when she thinks herself no cleverer than a pup being taught its first names. understanding comes more easily than speaking. even so, she often finds herself making sense of things only after the conversation has moved beyond them.

the raven interrupts her thoughts with a dry, guttural croak. she glances upward, finding it where it has settled among the blossoms. he not quiet, she remarks, almost accusingly, to the bird itself.

you not tell why brothers bring you, she ventures after a while, curiosity overcoming her reservations. his earlier answer had been swallowed by the difficulty of his language, and she is not entirely certain whether she has missed something important. you come for something?