[ Don't I always look like this? she wants to say, but that gets locked behind her teeth. Grace, in all things, like the beasts and the trees and the green: her own personal creed, really, defined and refined again over time. In another life, perhaps she would have been a druid. Halsin, and even Jaheira, at least seem to think so, but that's such a silly thing to think. No animal escapes what it really is. Something always survives.

Her answer isn't immediate. Instead, Tav crouches down, both hands digging into Bosky's fur. The wolf makes a soft noise, a grumbling sort of half-whine at such a manual accost for his attention. (And away from his very favorite person, too.) She practically presses her face into the soft concave of Bosky's ear, placing a quiet, low instruction. (Go see if—. And the rest, inaudible.) Whatever it is, it makes him bound off into the night, a looming shape venturing beyond the thicket.

Satisfied, Tav straightens. Brushes a little dirt from her palms, tipping her chin into a short nod. ]

Wyll, please. [ A definitive answer, the play decided, though it's not without a small grin. Not shy, exactly, but maybe a little smaller, like the first pass of a secret that she thinks is funny: ] Gale hates it when you wake him so close to sunrise. You're very good at needling him sometimes.

[ (It's one of the very best things, about traveling with this group of people, all their Illithid-shaped dangers aside. That they keep her secrets, and make her laugh, and she's allowed to keep theirs in turn.

What right does she have, to ask for more than that?)

Tav makes as if to move towards the heat of the fire. An open arm in gesture, or maybe more questioning: ]

I'd like to keep you company, until Bosky comes back. [ Another definitive. A pause, and then her expression flickers, suddenly unsure with a, ] If you'd— like.