The wind had come up and the day had turned cold, inviting a fuchsia flush to creep across the greyhound's freckled cheekbones. Lank limbs stretched out along the gnarled surface of a burly branch; ivory fingers curving outwards from the precious shelter of fur-lined gloves, etching deep furrows in the crisp bark. Slanted mahogany jewels half-shuttered behind unruly strands of murky green, ebony lashes shadowing dark telltale signs of sleepless nights. Knees drawn close to the thin angles of his chest, which was nicely clothed in the loose-fitting folds of an open collar garment, calves and thighs attired attractively in faded denim threads. A virtually new wardrobe, courtesy of the weird guy. Otherwise known as Paranormal, but whatever. Stygian had made a resolve to refer to him as weird until he was shown otherwise. For niss sake, the man had adopted him without so much as taking him out to some snazzy restaurant and attempting to bribe him into good behavior with money. Ffff. There had to be a catch; he just knew it. There was always a catch.Abruptly, cartilage twitched, pricking to attention; nose and ears suddenly stiff, picking up on a feminine presence stalking nearby. Somewhere behind him, it seemed. Brown orbs flickering, narrowing to suspicious slits, the muscles of his body instinctively tensed. Gloved hands raising, allowing ivory fingers to assume a strangling grip upon a cluster of sturdy limbs, grasping them firmly. Pushing off the arcs of his feet the greyhound managed to hoist himself higher in the canopy, away from the leaf-littered forestfloor below. Except he wasn't adapted to tree-climbing – and his ineptitude showed, branches and twigs creaking and groaning beneath his movements, a few breaking off entirely and falling to the grounds below, with a not-so-quiet rustle and thud. Well, shit. As was his habit, Stygian froze, stuffing his glove in his mouth to prevent further unnecessary noise. What if the presence was some kind of . . monster? He'd heard plenty stories of those to know it usually was nothing more than that: a story, but even so a part of him, the timid child, couldn't help but wonder, irrational fear pricking his veins.