"Damn," she spits, spilling into the snow. She was trying to avoid this, because Brightfern hates the cold. She is a newly-minted warrior, shiny and hesitant with lack of use. They sent her out to hunt, of course. Send the disposable one. Send the one that doesn't complain, she thinks bitterly. And now she's lying in the snow, beyond the fringe of trees, and her mouse- her tiny, pathetic mouse- is gone. It wasn't much more than a mouthful, but its loss annoys her.
"It's not safe out here," a voice announces. "A little thing like you, you'll catch your death."
She springs up to face a complete stranger. He smells foreign, and Brightfern doesn't trust him. "What's it to you?" she asks, jutting her chin out at him. He's damnably attractive, with inky black fur and wide amber eyes.
"Well," he starts, charmingly, "I couldn't sit here and watch such a pretty cat such as yourself freeze to death without so much as a warning."
Brightfern smiles at the flattery. This is the start.