“I'm not much for stalking,” she lied through her teeth. A weak smile rose, and she adjusted her delicate shoulders with a shimmy that mimicked the vulture rustling it's own feathers in preparation for the hunting flight. She was watchtower tall, and would have been even if it were not for the subtle heel of her boots. The boots were combative, and seemed to have been caked in smudges of graveyard dirt and bits of moss. Then again, so were her fingers, which became apparent when she extracted a pack of Marlboro menthols from her pocket. Her uticles were blackened with the memory of gardening.. or wait, was that dried blood?
“You live here, nightcrawler?” Asked so keenly, as if she really did not already know.