Lake Rodney shapeshift conductor for your spark

Cypress tilts back his head to look at the “crowning jewel” with a furrowed brow and a fierce scowl of concentration. He wants to see what Mato sees, but all he sees is an island with a tree on it. “Guess it is quiet,” he concedes, trying to be kind to the younger wolf. There was a time Cypress used to be that wolf, making pictures of shadows and seeing glory in the simple things, but that time and that wolf died with Scimitar and Eshe. Still, he continues staring up at the tree as though he might read beauty between the branches or glean history from its roots. Even when he is directly addressed, Cypress keeps his gaze locked piercingly upon the behemoth, delivering his answer in a flat, almost robotic baritenor.

“I was thirsty,” he replies simply. “My brothers and I have been traveling for awhile now and I wandered off on my own.” The raven pulls his gaze away from the tree and refocuses on the silver-gilded royal. “You probably should’ve met Noch,” he says, almost apologetically, cracking a lopsided half-grin at last. “He’d probably be able to see what you see. Better’n me, anyway.”