She listened. Silently heeding his words, the expression on her face never wavering from the languid melancholy.

A... human...? Oh, how vaguely familiar. The tall, fleshy beings... for some strange reason, the feeling of their long fingers stroking through her fur was so palpably familiar.

Killed... What was as close as Cvetka could get to memory was quickly shaken off by the end of his story.

Cvetka shuddered. Since colliding with the ice, fearing that she'd die, perhaps of head injury—if the ice didn't break first—had elicited some visceral fear of the inevitable end. ...I'm sorry. She said softly. Her head moved closer until her nose barely brushed his blonde fur.

He smelled of summer. Of the dry season—arid herbs with pungent, rich scents.