For the better part of the new hunter's time in the league, Rasalas had avoided the border of Primal Instinct's territory like the very thought of going there was somehow a death wish. If anyone had uttered the very idea of walking near it, the hunter would have pratically bawked, given a panicked chuckle and stammered out a, "No no, really! I have to be somewhere else!" But that had calmed a bit as time had passed, as if something about just living in the league had reassured him of its safety, as if being here had slowly made him bolder. He didn't mind signing up on patrols anymore, didn't mind going hunting in a two or three cat pair nearby it, and now, slowly but surely, he had taken to occasionally, very rarely, checking the border alone, an ironic mix of wariness with what just might have been a hint of smugness at some unknown entity, like he was taunting some imaginary creature using an imaginary line, silently laughing at them to dare cross it, to dare try and touch him. The might of the league made an imposing shield, the likes of which he could have never fathomed barely more than a month ago when he had been a wandering loner looking for something, anything to hide amongst.

But boldness was all great when dealing with hypotheticals and imaginary situations, it was another thing when those situations became real. And so, in spite of the fact that Rasalas had been wandering the border that day alone with the same kind of mixture of untouchableness and unease as ever, in all melted away into a soft wash of terror as their gaze fell on Pesmerga. He didn't dare try and fully stalk closer, he was terribly unstealthy and he knew it, so he let distance and a slow advance forward act more as a defense than the shadows and thick overgrowth he tried in vain to stick to; he was merely biding time and collecting bit of information in the little moments he had before he caught the tom's attention. Of course, there wasn't a lot about the tom to take in about him just on sight alone; primarily because he was too new to have any clue about Funk's reign of the League beyond passing comments, or to have any clue who Pesmerga really was at all. All he could take note of was the fact the tom was clearly older, and that he was a bengal — a trait that in the past would screamed kitty-pet heritage to him, a stuck-up purebred, but he at least had learned that the rosette pattern in the clan wasn't quite as damning of a clue to a cat's point of origin as it was where he came from. Not that the tom being a kitty-pet would have changed much Rasalas' eyes, unlike the cats of the clans and a few of the league, he wasn't half so incline to just assume a kitty-pet couldn't tear him to shred in a moment's notice. No, in fact the only thing of real merit to Rasalas was that the tom was sitting there, watching, like he was waiting for something — and that was either a horrible sign, or a good one, depending on how you looked at it.

He sighed, a soft, light on the air sort of sigh, too quiet to be heard as he started walking over to the tom, pulling out of any bare minimum cover he had tried to keep and making sure his approach was as obvious as possible to the bengal cat sitting opposite of the border, a hesitant smile on his face, like the other tom was some very unfortunate uninvited dinner guest he was making a concerted effort to still be polite to. When he'd closed what he considered a reasonable distance — which was perhaps a little farther back and defensive that what most might have called "reasonable," — he called out to tom. "Good evening! Pardon me but is there a reason you're waiting there? You're very close to the border." It was as warm as he could manage, and probably one of the warmest greeting one could possibly get from a league cat, (and in fact, warmer than you could probably get from most clan and group cats in general), but all in all, it sounded more like the warning of some sort of slightly disgruntled gaurd — or perhaps more akin to a head lord of an estate having to be polite for the sake of their appearance, but overall shaken by the odd inconvenience of someone standing outside their nicely trimmed hedges and expensive gates.