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She was ready to go and seek humans. She was. She was ready to seek other humans.

Not quite this fast, not nearly this many. Golden eyes flinch from the light, pale limbs cringe from the noise, and only the questioning noise from the long-legged, long-furred hound combined with the sight of the land outside the door causes her to move.

She flees from the front door and out the back without ever testing the wall behind her, or managing to acknowledge anyone she may have run over in her wild flight.

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He says nothing. It's a rule of his- one broken often of late, but still- that he doesn't talk to a woman he doesn't already know, or that he hasn't been introduced to. It doesn't mean he can't be polite, though; he nods his head once.

One gloved hand reaches out to stroke the little puppy gently as it stumbles back to lean against his boot.

She doesn't speak either. It has been (years) time since she last did. Ash is still looking at the puppy like it might do something strange and potentially violent.

She has never been a mother (either). I don't know that kind of dog.

His silver eyes flick from the woman to the dog, which is another breed he's never seen before. Although it looks a little like some of the dogs he saw once in a book of his mama's, the kind Russian royalty would use to hunt deer, or wolves.

The puppy is half the age it will need to be before it can begin exploring the world. Its senses are awake, but only barely. It knows there are new smells, and moving things, and oh!

That smells like itself!

The little blue-grey ball of fuzz toddles forward an awkward step or two.

Ash moves behind Deerskin. Deerskin kneels on the ground and, without moving her gaze from the silver eyes of the silver man, extends her fingers toward the puppy.

He still says nothing, but he's careful- very careful- how he looks back. Most wild things, now, they see the eye contact as a threat. He's seen wolves take down elk, and moose. They stare each other down first. If the moose breaks and runs, the hunt is on. They don't always run, though.

He'd rather not make anyone run today, and so his expression scarcely changes a whit as the girl stretches out her hand. She's not running now; if he makes no further move, then there is nothing, or at least very little, that could be seen as a threat.

The puppy makes a faint little yip and stretches its nose in the direction of the new smells.

She smells like...clean. And spring. And girl-woman. Like stale fear. Like Ash.

Ash looks at Mouse as if to say What in the world is my person doing with this small thing of yours? which isn't terribly helpful.

Deerskin does not look away. She will not be the thing hunted (again). Her fingers, slowly, curve to pet under the puppy's jaw.

The little man's eyes do not so much narrow as seem to half-disappear; his skin is wrinkled, his face homely, and even the least little smile will do that to his look.

He's more than a little scared of women. This one, he's thinking, might be near as scared in return.

Near as. More so. Something like that. Eventually she says, "Her name is Ash."

This is because the long-legged hound, jealous of the puppy, is moving toward the puppy's person and staring down her nose at him.

And that's a lot of nose to be stared down at from.

"Nice to meet you, Ash," he says to the dog then, turning his eyes from the girl to the dog once more. "It's all right. He's not gonna be trouble."

The pup's too young for him to be carrying jerky around in his pockets, alas. The best he can do is hold up a hand, palm up, in Ash's vicinity. "Most folks call me Mouse," he adds when he next looks the girl's way. "I don't know the pup's name. Maybe someday."

After due consideration, his palm is licked.

"I am..." (No.) She stops, and looks troubled. Her gaze finally falls, going to the puppy instead of the man. "I don't know his kind of dog."

That gets his eyes to disappear almost completely, what with the smile it calls up and all. He looks to the girl then, nodding. If she doesn't want to give her name, or if she can't, that's all right. There's plenty of folks in the north country who left things behind best left buried.

"He's a husky," he says quietly, watching the pup sniffle at the girl's hand as it tries to decide if this is a thing for biting or not. "A sled-dog. Teams of 'em pull people over the snow. He'll be-"

He indicates a dog that's probably somewhat larger than his own torso.

"-when he's grown."

Much smaller than Ash. She nods, "Ash is a sight-hound. She hunts for us. I don't know sled dogs. It wasn't cold" (No) "there."

The hand is not for biting. It does find the spot behind the ears where big dogs keep their souls, and she rubs that place gently.

That makes the puppy happy, though he has not yet figured out how to air-jog as he might one day do. He wriggles, though. It's good.

"There're other dogs waiting for me," he says. "A team of four. If we've got to hunt, they do it by smell. I found this one-" He indicates the puppy. "-caught in the snows. Been keeping him close ever since."

"Ash just has me." She informs him, and Ash huffs a sigh before laying down. Her person is playing with the puppy. "He's lucky to have you."

"Thank you," he says. "Life'd be harder than it has to be, without dogs."

(No) I wouldn't (NO) Ash saved (NO!) "Yes."

That didn't sound quite right, and he's not sure it looked quite right, either - but he's not the sort to pry into a woman's business. He nods instead and looks to Ash again. "She must be a fine hunter," he observes. "Be careful. There's rabbits in these woods that'll fight back. They're red, and they taste awful."

"Red rabbits that fight and taste bad." She doesn't disbelieve him. Too many things have gone strange today. She doesn't disbelieve him, "She is."

He nods. "Time was when there'd be snares, too, but I don't have any out there just now. I don't think anyone else does, either. There's deer, too."

She doesn't strike him as the sort to be coming inside any time soon.

No, not soon. Its too (much) bright, and full. "Ash can take down a deer." She says with a nod, running her fingers along the puppy's back before returning to the spot behind its ear.

Very like the Russian dogs, then. Mind, it's been years on end since he last saw that book. He mostly just remembers the pictures.

The puppy's hind end wriggles, as is often the case with puppies too small to really know how to wag their tails and tails only yet.

"Will you need any help dressing one out?" he says at last. He's not sure if she'd be carrying a knife under that, and anyway he doesn't think of too many women as being the sort to butcher their own meat.

"I." She says, and stops. I know how, I have done it before, but not well. (Yes) "Please. I don't do it well."

He nods. "I'll be out here a lot," he says. "The pup needs to get used to the cold. When she pulls one down-" He nods at Ash. "-I'll be about, and I'll help."

When he was younger, he went into the open lands that lay past his father's ranch and spent a summer on his own to see if he could. The next year, or the year after that- it blurs together after a while- he took his leave of his kin and spent a full turn of the seasons in the wild. There was someone to teach him what he didn't know then, an old and bitter man named Weng Hao, and Weng Hao had strongly suggested he'd better be ready to pass those teachings on to others someday.

Some things you don't forget, not even thousands of miles and a country's gulf away.

She fought with the animals Ash brought her, and learned a crude way of doing things. It is, however, very crude. She knows how much waste she's left. "Thank you."

"All part of the job, ma'am."

He'd tip his hat, but the muskrat-fur cap hasn't got a brim, so he merely touches his fingers to his brow for a moment instead.