The half-dragon didn't always put her tent up at night. For one thing, there didn't usually seem to be a shortage of bedrolls open for her to share, and for another thing it seemed such a monatonous waste of effort when she would have to just pack it up again in the morning.

But tonight it seemed that her usual more-than-friends were preferring to cluster among themselves, the kvaren and former slaves more seperate than before, leaving a lovely half-dragon a bit lonely. It was still winter and the cool, steady breeze toyed with her black hair and the loose membranes of her wings.

Busying herself, Drache set up her own tent between the trees, which was just as plain in colour as those used by the Kvaren, though the silk clearly marked her as an outsider. As she worked, she could feel it when the others started their fires, a few smaller ones rather than one large communal one, plus the occasional lantern or torch. Practicing daily with Laurel had sharpened her senses dramatically. The hungry heat of the flames was like a voice, a pull. 

The half-dragon's head jerked up sharply when the thick iron scent of blood hit her nose, her nostrils flaring. More than just meat ready for cooking, it was the gory smell of someone stripping a carcass, and it brought the hybrid's hunger into focus.

Fire-amber eyes found Raffey and she watched him work for a while, sitting in the entrance of her tent with her journal open in her lap, casually sketching a likeness of the human on the thin parchment. She considered what she knew about him, which wasn't much. A slave, freed at the Gathering by Keelie, armed but apparently missing much of his things. She didn't even know his name.

Drache shoved her journal aside and prowled quietly until she was standing across from the foreign human, eyeing the dangling deer with her horned head cocked slightly, tail weaving back and forth behind her. Her claws drummed softly against the thick glass of a bottle of red wine tucked neatly against her scaled hip. 

[color=ed1c24]"There's a lot of meat there for one man,"[/color] she started, her voice low. They both knew there wouldn't be time to smoke it before the group broke camp in the morning. [color=ed1c24]"I'm weary of dried trail rations. Perhaps we might make a trade?"[/color] Her claws drummed on the bottle once more, but there was something about her posture that implied she might have more to offer him.