Senses born from the battlefield honed him in on an incoming approach, though it was neither adversarial or threatening. His initial thoughts were to simply ignore it, press on, apathetic and indifferent, leave them behind with the rest of the morning as he descended into predatory refrains. The piercing slate of his gaze still eased over towards the stranger though, a figure he didn’t recognize from any recent gatherings, from any wandering through the streets. He would’ve noticed the flaming red hair, the awkward, ill-fitting stature, as if she didn’t fit in amongst the world; not a hunter, not a gatherer, and the natural state of curiosity caused him to stray, a few steps taken into the field, before ceasing any movements altogether.
Something about the moment irritated him, vexed him. He presumed she was out here to snag herself a meal, to prepare for the impending struggles of days without sun, as most cretins out at this hour. Was she intending to stalk, shoot, or snare while making that much noise? If it was enough for him to notice, then the animals were bound to, predisposed to alarm, to saving their skin, to running, fleeing, given the opportunity. Perhaps it was inexperience, and she was forced into a role she'd never played simply for survival. He sighed, watched his breath puff and curl, coil and shift, along the cool, chilling air. Time was of the essence – he couldn’t be dawdling out here. The beast made to move away when she grew closer, only proffering a shard of advice over his shoulder, between the bows and arrows, the might and the experience tucked away in the deep intonations, in the rumble and grumble of his voice; quiet, methodical, deliberately nuanced in a hushed diligence. “If you want a successful hunt, one must embody silence.” He gave her a pointed look, an arch of a brow, before following his own advice, slinking into the grass, as if he were not a massive fiend.
