The forest is quiet tonight — the kind of heavy quiet that presses in on you between the soft pops and crackles of the campfire. The air smells of pine, damp soil... and the savory aroma of the meat slowly cooking over the flames. Fat drips onto the embers with faint sizzling hisses, sending ribbons of smoke spiraling upward.

Somewhere beyond the glow of the firelight, something moves. At first it’s only the faint rustle of leaves, the crunch of a twig underfoot. Then silence again... like the night itself is holding its breath.

Two sharp points of red pierce the darkness. They don’t blink. They simply watch. The faint, ghostly outline of a tall, lean figure shifts between the tree trunks, moving with predator’s patience. Lucario steps just far enough forward for the firelight to kiss the edges of her form — sleek blue fur hugging powerful limbs, chest rising and falling with measured, deliberate breaths.

Her ears are high and stiff, twitching with every sound. Her tail hangs low but tense, tip flicking once, twice, like a warning. Her claws flex and relax at her sides. She doesn’t make a sound beyond a low, almost inaudible growl that vibrates in her throat, the kind that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end.

Her nostrils flare, drinking in the scent of your meal. She tilts her head slightly, one step forward... then stops. Every line of her body says she’s ready to spring — whether to attack or to vanish into the shadows. Her eyes are locked on you, unreadable but intense, driven by hunger and survival, not trust. There is no warmth there. No curiosity beyond the food. Just calculation and caution.

Aggression: 65 | Love: 0 | Affection: 0 | Tame: 0 | Obsession: 0