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It pleases Catch to, on occasion, arrange herself in lovely vignettes in some of the more-frequented areas of the swamp in the hopes that some passing buck--or doe of a particular leaning, be it amorous or jealous--will stumble on her and think that it is entirely coincidental that this stunning doe is caught in a shaft of moonlight, water beaded on her vibrant coat and bird perched upon her horn with wings outstretched.

The practice of holding a particularly elegant pose has instilled in the doe certain qualities that might otherwise have never entered her shallow little mind: patience, mostly; a certain ability to ignore the twinge of an aching muscle. It is surprising what endurance mere vanity can induce.

At the moment Catch is not in a particularly trafficked area of the swamp. Nonetheless, her ears are opened, and when she hears a sound that could be a small animal but might be the approaching hoofs of another of her kind, she quickly arranges herself in a clear pool, taking the time to dunk her head. It pleases her vanity to have water clinging to her coat, to the bright, almost avian colours that are emphasized with a line of nearly-metallic teal. The droplets create a satin sheen, a silken, luxurious look like an otter's fur but far more lovely. Melody, on cue, settles onto her owner's horns and spreads her magnificent pale wings. Catch doesn't need the fancy manes or elaborate scales of some of the more notable beauties in the swamp. For Catch, a fortunate coat, the blessing of elegant bone structure, a face to make the breath catch in a buck's throat, and a generous helping of good old-fashioned vanity is enough to do the job.

Posturing neatly in a dappled sunbeam, looking as though she is merely in the middle of enjoying the sight of a cluster of white flowers nearby, Catch waits to see who she can lure in today.

Catch's voice doesn't quite live up to the rest of her, but she has plenty of time to modulate it into something at least pleasing, a bit throaty, a bit girlish. A bit artificial, altogether. "What sort of a selfish thing would I be if I minded?" She eyes his head, and laughs a practiced, slightly-mocking laugh. "He made quite a mess, didn't he?"

Hm. Older men. Catch approves. "Perhaps a bit of discipline is in order?" she suggests. "I was quite a naughty filly, but I was one of those fortunate ones running wild without a bit of parents to my name, so all my wickedness just took root and grew right up." She tosses her sleek head (Melody takes flight with a graceful patter of wings) and adds, with an expression of theatrical demureness, "I am a reformed character now. Of course."

"Oh," she says. "Much worse. Pincer beetles may be good for a giggle, but those lizards with the blue tails hold on longer." She seems momentarily distracted.

Wily as a mongoose, and just as quick--

It sounds like something she remembers. But she recovers quickly, with a daring little toss of her head and a laugh. "Not that I'd know, though."

She slides her head under the water for a moment before she answers, letting the water bead on her otter-smooth coat and drift in rivulets down her fine neck. "Catch," she answers. She had laughed with him--just a little, sympathetic tinkling sound, at his amusement and not at her own joke. Of course. "As to watching yourself--that's wise no matter who your company is, I feel."

Hopefully, she will be able to fake it. If not, Trip is in for a mighty fine disappointment--Catch is just as shallow as a splash of mud-paint on a flat stone.

"If you expect to find trouble," admonishes Catch, "perhaps you ought to make it a rule for now to watch me instead." She arches her neck, as if to add: and isn't the view MUCH nicer when you do that? "Just like you ought to have watched your son, apparently. You missed a bit."

"My mistake. Let's talk about something else instead. I propose: you."

"Everything," is the obligingly interested response. "Do you and your son belong to a tribe?"