A shame it was soured. He would have loved to see her works. . .

Perhaps a hunt then?

21

She looked 'hard to chew through'. . . .

Was she ~?♡

Wounds that visibly marked his body would have been lethal to any other fragile species.

He was but a tad too old, and a tad too wounded by his culture's standards to be anything more than someone who fixes the messes of the younger hunters . . .

"𝘏𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳. 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲. 𝙉𝙤𝙬 𝙄 𝙖𝙢 𝘾𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙧.𝗦𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗿. 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫. . .ᴏʟᴅ." The Voice spoke out with a small chirp and trill, hand raising to trace talons across his aged hide, then to his pendant of bones.

He was past his prime by a few hundred or so years, and the +

Threatening someone and the response being nothing but admiration and joy, as if she were some magnificent creature in the fields, a prime specimen.

To be worshiped as borderline divinity was one thing, but to be admired for one's strength was another.

+

To hear more, face her on the field of battle, hunt her or he hunted by her in the densely packed foliage and mounds of his homeworld. . .

Sadly with age comes responsibility. And with those, came chains around what he can and cannot do now.

Sigh. . . If only. It must have been strange to her.

The Hunter not caring enough to test her temper, thumb pads gently caressing the side of the bracer, before lowering with another click and an amused huff.

Her threat was beautiful. Veiled just enough not to offend, but powerful and absolute.

If he were a younger hunter he would have loved +

Its Head shifted to examine her once she spoke, Talons tracing slowly across its own bracer as it softly hissed out in curiosity once more.

"𝙎𝙩𝙪𝙙𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜. . . 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐." The Mechanic voice splice chirped out from the Mask, recorded from other voices it seemed.

Human technology is shockingly simple to grasp.

This Courting App is even simpler to understand.

As for how it works. . .

. . .elaborate further on the question

The Wolf cocked its head, Masked face blankly examining her. . .

Before small, clicking and tapping. . . Repeatedly, smooth and in a pattern. . .

He was laughing at her comment.

"𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘺. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝙄𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙙. 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍."

Its language wasn't pretty.

It wasn't beautiful in a normal sense.

Hisses. Growls. Chirps. And throat purrs.

It was powerful. And power was rarely soft.

Wounded throat, like sandpaper and gravel, with none of that romanticized 'smooth and caramel words' that most fawned over in stories.

His voice, was sharp, like unsmoothed gravel, gruff like thistle, and raw and rumbling like a predator.