Silvertip Mountain Zhavvi does not cry.

Mason had not been doing much besides lolling lazily when Zhavvi broke into the den at speed, slowing immeasurably until she literally melted against his father. The young lad with his somewhat stunted legs lifted his head from its cushion of tuft of moss. The rest of his body spread languidly along the den floor as he watched Zhavvi dissolve against FitzDutiful. He felt a flutter of discomfort thread through his body at her obvious distress. In fact, she started sobbing without warning, and Mason’s ears flicked back against his skull as he took all of this in. Boy, was he glad June wasn’t prone to fits of inconsolable anguish. 

Dad asked her the obvious question. Mason slowly collected together his paws, and turned his body so  that he was lying sphinx-like. He watched stolidly as Zhavvi burst out her mother tongue. He knew her quite well, so this did not surprise him, but he was interested to know what it meant. Perhaps he would have to ask her to teach him some of her words… once she had calmed down, anyway.

Mason let out a small cough when Zhavvi said she was hungry – any metaphor was lost on him through his youth – and he turned to the side of the den where there was a cache of meat they had been keeping in case the weather turned bad and hunting went down. Without sound he lifted himself to his paws and ghosted across the den to the cache. He picked up a small rabbit, and moved back to where Zhavvi was just finishing her mention of hunting. Pleased with himself, Mason dropped the rabbit next to Zhavvi, and sat next to her and his father, pressing his nose lightly against her shoulder to try and help comfort her as his father was doing.