He is careful with her. He isn’t scared of her, or fearful; not even remotely skittish or cautious. She just seems like a doe—wary, introverted, easily spooked—and he feels like a ravenous buck.
The air around them is muggy, and humid. He isn't used to it, he is used to masculine scents and an overwhelming amount of dry air. The temperature alone is pecking at him with unfamiliarity and the time cannot move slower. He just wants to acclimatize so that his comfortableness can be one less thing to worry about.
She speaks, delicately and clumsily. He hears her the first time, the soft “hi” hardly louder than a church mouse, followed by an almost bellowing hello with such vocalization that for a second Dalten flicks his ears away to accommodate for the sudden change. He is a softer spoken soul, introverted. Perhaps he is the doe.
He is blind to the small pack of deer grazing off in the distance, his attention inadvertently on the female before him. He had always been taught to mind his manners, especially to females. Growing up in the Jungle with a mother such as Lagertha could do that to a man.
He had been raised properly, his mother had been sure of it.
“Hello,” he mimics with a husky darkened tone that floats into the air with a sense of smoothness. Dalten has always been intriguing, but his voice is arguably his most daunting trait. It has a deep set that is always recognizable and favourably heard in a large crowd of conversations. It has a raspy husk that catches the attention of those who care enough to listen, or the attention of those desperate enough to hear anything.
His tunnel vision is what blocks him from seeing the onlooker now lingering in his peripherals. Of course, the smell of a female doe wafts daintily into his nostrils, but he pays no real mind. He is assuming the source of the scent is probably surrounded by the herd, absolutely engulfed in their grazing formation.
He has no idea he is the spotlight of a reality episode.
