She heard him coming long before the silhouette of his form crossed the horizon of the path. Although he was light on his feet and he moved with all the grace of a person who was comfortable in the wilderness, she heard him. Of course, it wasn’t fair. He was human. She could smell his warm blood -- sweet along with the musky odor of sweat that dampened his brow. There was also the smell of rancid chicken. It wasn’t rotten, but it was dead, and far from fresh, and definitely on its way out. Any creature with a keen sense of smell would notice it, which oddly enough brought her attention to the last interesting scent that perfumed this interesting man. It was dandruff from feathers, a smell that reminded her of sunshine and wind -- of Raphael and Isabella. 

Then she saw him. A man, wearing a heavy coat, a knapsack, and a wooden box around his neck. He moved with all the comfort and ease of someone who was certain he was in private, and she felt somewhat ashamed for not making herself known. However, that sense of guilt was quickly overcome. This was her space, she had found it first.

Even so, she knew it was childish. The polite thing to do would have been to make some sort of announcement of her presence. Perhaps clear her throat, or maybe make a move to stand, something that would have given away her position before he began to make himself at home. But she did no such thing. She was lost in the spectacle of his actions, and too far gone in the act of being a witness to this private moment of voyeurism. She consumed the vulnerability like a villain and observed him like a predator might observe prey. 

From her place, sitting near the shore, she did not move. Her knees were still pulled to her chest and her arms were still wrapped around them. Although she did straighten her back and lift her head so that more of her face fell into the shadow of her hood, which she had made certain to pull back over her hair. Her features were hidden away, the gold of her eyes, lost in the darkness that was cast over them. 

And she was free to watch the desperation and tenderness with which this man set down his small wooden box. How he sat into a low crouch, how he carried the tension in his thighs and back. With pinched brows, she observed the curious way his fingers unlatched the box, and how he rolled back onto his heels and waited.

[i]“Alright girl, come on now dammit.”[/i]

Gabriela held her breath. 

The skitter-scratch of small claws across a surface was the first indication that she had guessed correctly. She saw the small falcon hop out of the box only to perch just outside of it. The curious little thing, with bright and intelligent eyes, peered all around itself, then back up at the man. He was trying to feed it that same foul-smelling chicken. 

“She probably wants to work for her supper,” Gabriela said out loud, “...probably, just wants to feel useful, and hunt, like she’s intended to.” 

She should apologize and explain that she didn’t mean to startle him. But she didn’t say as much, the social graces for that seemed lost to her. She felt a bit burnt out. She wasn’t certain if Roen was still beyond the tavern. If he was still coming after her, or if he had grown bored and left. The games he played with her -- the things he did to her. They twisted her up and hurt her. She wasn’t herself and hadn’t been for so long now. 

But surely she could at least manage passing friendliness. 

Surely she could still manage common decency. 

Maybe she should apologize.

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you -- I was here first. You just walked up. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”