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He could smell her.

It was hardly a whiff; a minimal hint at what may or may not be a tasty little treat. Her scent was born upon a soft breeze, propelled onward and outward to the muddly, bloody mess of his group of reavers and their most recent raid. It was barely enough to be considered a success, honestly. Just a lion too big for his paws who thought he might take the group on to protect a slip of a lioness who was now whining and squirming somewhere behind the captain. He was suitably distracted by the glimmer of promise brought by the sweet wind that tousled his dark mane and hooded his eyes. The golden hue of his irises seemed to melt with pleasure as his hope was renewed that the day was not quite finished yet.

Snarling a warning to his reavers, most of whom were too busy gnawing on rib bones to put up a fuss, Rå'styrke stretched his thick limbs before putting bloody paws to the dirt and loping off to seek out the source of that tantalizing aroma.

There was little concern from the large dark male whether the female was feral or complacent, because at this point it did not matter. He would not back down from an altercation just because a female was "more trouble than she's worth," so a battle would go until she submitted or dropped dead. He preferred the former, of course, but in some cases the latter was a necessary and even satisfying end.

As he drew closer, he could smell the blood of the lion she had killed and there was some glimmer of appreciation for her ingenuity, but he was not out to bring home challenges to the Reavers or even Freeborn citizens. He was still riding high on blood lust and bent on bringing back bounty and thralls for his effort. Her apparent lethal ability would be assessed later, and she would be broken if she proved a threat to her master. All of these thoughts ran through the back of his mind like a flowing river without the impediment of conscious intervention; his mind formed no argument or plan, just allowed his subconscious to flow as he followed the scent and prepared for acquisition.

He had not expected her to give in so willingly. The snarl and lip curl were well in order with his expectations, and he greeted such in kind with his own growling call and rumbling roar. His pace did not slow even as she changed her approach, lifting her acquired kill and then presenting it to him as they met. He allowed his gait to dwindle to a lope only to keep from barreling into her, but he did continue his forward trajectory enough to circle her once. His chest full of air and his dark mane wild with the jog to find her, he appreciated her equally blood speckled coat and inhaled her scent once more before whirling to fall on the offered hare.

He nearly swallowed it whole; it was a poorly offering, but he grudgingly gave way that she had perhaps not been completely expecting him despite her strange change of heart. Rå'styrke was unfailingly superstitious, but for the time being he considered her greeting a sway to his intimidating posture than the results of a dying lioness' vision. Once the hare had been gulped down, he lifted his head and blood dripping muzzle to curl a lip and growl at her again, prepared to swipe if need be. He was still waiting for that fight, but ready to corral her off to the others all the same.

Ra had hardly a notion of attacking her for a growl. She was scarred, but a female and thus beneath his concern so far as a fight went. If she took up swinging at him claws bared then he might smack her around a bit, but he did not expect her to come without a fight. He certainly did not expect her to come without at least a rumbling of discontent, but here she seemed completely complacent to the idea. His dark brow ridges narrowed in suspicion, eyes flickering over her form with steadily growing disinterest. He was ready to return to his party.

Her admittance that she had no intention of fighting was more than enough for him, so he began to start forward to stalk and herd her back to the others if she were not willing to follow his lead. In his mind, the conversation was complete, so he had no reason to expect any further explanation much less what was actually given. As stated, he was still under the impression that it was his physique that he determined her outlook on the situation.

The mention of a seer lifted his hackles instantly as his bright eyes snapped to her face and his snarling lips fell into place to cover his gleaming teeth. He was seeking for any signs of a lie or that she might be spinning some tale aimed at her eventual release, but he took the bait for the time being at the very least, "A seer predicted your capture?" He wondered what sort of lion was intended to be a thrall, but his superstition pulled his imagination further. What sort of lioness would be intended to begin as a thrall, and what did her presence mean to him?

His lips were already pulling back over his white fangs, returning to the snarl of rage that had domineered his face moments before. He could practically hear her laughter in her superior tone, and it angered him. Condescension nor laughter were any way to befriend the Reaver captain, and he was not about to take either from a thrall as she would come to be. He had half a mind to kill her there; spill her intestines onto the earth until the dirt beneath her become bloody mud, or to bash her skull against the nearest rock until her brains turned to pudding.

But he stopped.

The mention of a seer was enough to stay his paw; removing him from the equation was death was as easy as mentioning a possibly half-crazed hallucinating lioness he had never met – his superstition was strong enough to worry a pride. He considered her without smoothing his features, looking over her form before allowing subtle relaxing of the tension in his shoulders to signify that he took her word – for now – as truth, "You are lucky to be brought in at all." It felt right to say as he leveled his gaze on her. He knew she might aspire to be a Reaver herself one day under the current leadership – knew that that vision may have entailed more than he knew.

Names or titles – what did he care of names or titles where thralls were concerned. They were his, he was their master, and that was enough for him. This one was different, he knew, and that was rubbing his fur the wrong way. This one had seers involved, and that was enough for him to consider that question for the first time in his life while speaking to one beneath him. His lips turned down in a pensive frown, also considering her bold statement that she would bring him luck.

What did he need with luck that he could not get with tooth and claw? He supposed changes were afoot, and that was enough a need for luck as any would be.

"I am called Rå'styrke." He mulled over what he preferred to be addressed by, if he were addressed at all, "To you, I am Captain until I say otherwise." There, good enough.