Blackfeather Woods Where the hell did all this blood come from

Relmyna offered only a nod for his question, and he supposed that would have to suffice. She was open enough with her body language that he could more or less understand her. "Why don't you talk?" he callously asked, having never known a world in which a wolf might choose not to speak or be physically incapable of it, but if she refused to answer that, then he would drop the subject.

"It's cool," he agreed, and would probably think the same thing when he finally learned what Wolfskull's purpose really was. The benefit of being raised around such dark, macabre things was that none of them seemed dark to him. "Live here?" he wondered, as brief as ever, but if she nodded or shook her head to that, he didn't notice it; he was too busy looking at the mangled squirrel she'd produced.

"For me?" It was the first gift he'd ever gotten from someone that wasn't family, and it made him feel warm. He wasn't great at eating whole meat yet—he slobbered on it more than actually chewing it—but he stretched out a limb and pulled it toward him nonetheless, battling a sudden self-consciousness that welled up in him at the thought of trying to eat something like this in front of the kindly woman.