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She understood 你好, ears pricking in obvious recognition at his greeting. Still felt at least a little relief when he followed in common tongue. She knew a smattering of his words for trading and threatening, which — aye, probably useful, since she expected that he wanted her fish and she had no intention of sharing it (her tail lifted high, a snarl ready on her lips even through a full mouth, and eyes stared hard in challenge.) But there was less likely to be confusion if they could meet somewhere in the middle.

In theory.

If it mattered.

Because the Cur was debating whether it was worth putting down her fish to answer him when that pox of a ghost decided now was the time to start prating at her again, as if lightning itself channeled their voice. Not safe. With a fear unbecoming of dead voices. She felt a sharp sick twist of anxiety burn through her, as if the bolt had struck her outright.

Fur bristling, she spun for a source of consternation, but the rain fell, and nothing new appeared in the fog. An emerald gaze fixed hard back upon the stranger. Blue eyes. Was he the threat? Could she trust an unnatural voice over her own instinct?

... Better not to take any chances.

Knowing full well he could follow her if he chose, the Cur bolted back into the forest, towards the ramshackle inn where she had left Mal that morning. Fish in tow.