physically, dovethistle was far from intimidating. she was solid grey — nothing more, nothing less — and she was small, slender in a frail sort of way.
but the way her ordinary brown eyes burned into mine was far from ordinary.
"lizardfern," dovethistle meowed. it was a statement, but her tone — almost inquisitive in inflection — seemed to be prompting a response.
she didn't wait for one, however.
"to what do i owe the pleasure of your company?"
just a hint of irony coloured her otherwise amiable tone.
