The worry within the woman's voice as to the state of the currently unconscious vendor sees those dark chocolate eyes lift to Pretty's own, features frowning slightly as she asks if the man is dead. For a moment the leopard is almost half given to consider the fact, head tilting slightly as he moves to peer over the man once more, the faint rise and fall of his chest at least indicating some sense of life, one finger moving to point towards his chest in this moment, lips parting to speak before the woman suddenly cuts him off. Her demand to know why he had done it sees the creature frown slightly, the command within her tone grating slightly against him as he shifts in some manner of discomfort, rapidly beginning to tire of the woman's question. He does not like being asked how or why, such questions difficult for his mind to compute or understand and yet the tone with which she addresses him in this moment, the glare upon her face assuring him she is displeased as his arms fold across his chest, leather collar continuing to irritate his neck in this moment as he merely rolls his shoulders in some effort at displaying his disdain.

"Is not....dead! Sleeping."

He does not understand 'unconscious' not truly, assured the man has merely been pushed into some sort of enforced nap, dark eyes peering through that ever-wild hair to rest upon Pretty once more. He likes the woman, is comfortable around her, has grown to enjoy her company and yet her continued desire to question him has readily begun to agitate him. He is hardly a private person, more so, he finds questions difficult, his mind revolting against them, unable to truly understand so much of what he is asked- her insinuation that this is hardly the first time he has assaulted someone lost entirely upon him, despite the obvious truth of her words. He has lived for so long alone, survived entirely upon his own instinct and if another has had to fall to facilitate his survival- then so be it. The laws of nature, of the jungle, of the wild are entirely clear.....there simply are none beyond a need to simply survive. He moves to brush past her, heading now for the ice-cream cart, entirely unsure as to how to actually consume the frozen treat, poking at it experimentally, the blank look Pretty offers him assuring him that neither of them, perhaps, have any true idea of how to eat it. He pauses slightly, reaching to snatch an ice cream scoop from the side of the cart, dipping it experimentally into the nearest flavour, rolling out a scoop, eyes flicking about to find the small child that had wandered away with her cone merely moments before, seeking to mimic her behaviour. The vanilla ice cream is brought readily to his lips, tongue brushing across it as a look of momentary delight seems to touch his features.

"It is....for licking!"

This sudden discovery is met with evident all, a grin of sorts touching his features, the scent of Birdie upon the fox seeing his warning uttered before he suddenly moves to hold the ice cream and scoop towards the girl, the frosted, sugary treat licked once more before he proceeds to hand it to her, returning to the cart in search of another scoop form himself before seeming to decide his hands are good enough, moving to pull the entire tub of vanilla from the cart, proceeding to drag it across the grass and back towards the shade of the tree, snickering in delight as he does, gesturing for Pretty to follow. His steal concealed within the shade the boy moves to abruptly fold his limbs beneath him, pulling the enormous ice-cream tub closer to him, abruptly digging one hand into it as Pretty speaks once more. For a moment he simply pauses to stare towards her, head tilting slightly, the scent of Birdie upon him assuring she knows the woman and yet her denial does little more then frustrate him. He does not have the words nor the ability to provide an accurate description of the woman, nor is he truly aware of how close the two women are, oblivious to the fact that Birdie has been dividing her time between both Pretty and himself in this moment as he seems given to contemplation. He dislikes being forced to utter her true name, the taste foreign and disapproving on his lips, the man never having spoken it before and yet this hardly means he does not know it.

"Raven. Raven is....Birdie."

He pauses now, seeking to assure himself Pretty understands exactly who they are talking about before he speaks again.

"Birdie....is mine.....not yours. I....want to keep her....just for me. Why do you...smell like....her?"

madness, as you know, is like gravity: all it takes is a little push