The days wore on and Skellington hunted south. Eventually he would return north, possibly retire to the mountains as was his want, but for now he was content to use the sheath of grey clouds to cover as much ground as he could while the sun remained muted. It was the cooler weather that had prompted him to explore in the first place -- knowing that the warmer it got, the less he'd be inclined to travel -- so he moved at a quick, even pace that ate away at more miles than he was typically used to traveling in a single day. By the fifth day, he had reached a kind of hill-land he'd never encountered before, and here was where he rested temporarily.

The barrenness of the red-sanded territory only served to irritate him after a while. Eating was a typical way to placate him, but he wasn't able to catch anything here; he was too visible and felt too foreign here, to do any sort of successful stalking. After experiencing several misfires when trying to obtain a small meal, Skellington abandoned his quest for food and instead made for high ground so that he might find the clearest path out of this loveless location.

The trails upward were unpleasant, but weren't by far the worst thing about his day. He was lying down in the dirt when he realized that someone was coming up on the opposite side of the redcliff, and he turned his eyes and ears towards the sound of footsteps, waiting for the other creature to emerge in his sights.

At first glance Skellington thought a large male was emerging before him, but in the next moment her scent touched him, addressing him readily with the telltale perfume of feminine hormones. Her features came into play after that, for despite her burly physique, the shape of her face and the curve of her hips made his initial mistake even more glaring the closer she came. His body language was decidedly disinterested for the time being -- the last thing he wanted was to be forced into action in this moment -- but he kept his gaze trained on her warily, unsure yet of what temperament the raven witch would serve him.

She chose cordiality, strangely enough. Not exactly the start he was used to, but could somehow appreciate it all the same. It was a fortune that worked in favor, as he appeared to have no interest in getting up, either because he was overconfident or perhaps lazy. Both seemed likely but even though he remained quite still, he'd honestly had no expectation of staying in his prelapsarian lounge; not since the moment he had caught her approach.

He turned a single ear down in cool deference to her presence -- the closest thing to an answer she'd get -- and the gargoyle relaxed his broad shoulders that had unwittingly become tense at her arrival. He took a deep breath, inhaling more of her scent as much as he was forcing himself into a liberal mood, before he dared look away from her and divide his already minimal amount of attention. Skellington's jaw dropped into a light pant, and his dark eyes scanned the horizon as the female situated herself as she wished.

From the corner of his darker eye he watched her. She came close but not within reach -- smart -- and even though his thoughts fled to violence on principle, he knew that he had no inkling of an intention to accost her. Skellington's neck wound was over a week old now, and becoming less and less noticeable as the days wore on, but he was still in no mood to fight anyone. Not when the only thing keeping the earth cool was a bit of distant rain. This was not the season for competition anyway, and loneliness made him more willing to share his space than he would have been otherwise. Her nearness gave him a chance to study her better, at any rate.

Her eyes were yellow venom, and the damp breeze covered Skellington in the shadowy amazon's scent, which carried no other recent aromas but her own, putting him further at ease. He was, unfortunately, anything but a conversationalist. He didn't even tend to speak when spoken to. He remembered once going six months without speaking a single word; but it had been better that way, because whether he wasted his breath or not, his brothers had always still attacked him. It had only been a matter or time before he'd learned an inaccurate lesson on what he thought was the uselessness of speaking.

After he felt satisfied by the knowledge that no one else was approaching -- and that she had taken up reclining rather than taking up a threat -- the sand-tainted sighed heavily and placed his head atop one of his outstretched forelegs. He looked up pointedly at the she-wolf, but continued not to speak. She was a woman, and in most his experiences with the opposite gender, he'd found that they liked to talk. Most wolves talked more than he did, but females in particular seemed prone to conversation. He seemed to expect it now -- she had, after all, broken the silence once already -- there was no reason for the misogynist to think she'd stay quiet.