Duck Lake weeping willow

Björn felt a small measure of relief within the part of his mind that worried if the fire kissed woman before him would make a connection between Sveinn and him based off of accent again, if by some small change she had gotten around to meeting his son, when she did not show any sort of reorganization, nor did she vocalize anything. Unknowing of whom, exactly, he was talking to and her vital importance to the Creek (or that she did, indeed, know Sveinn) Björn was left to assume that she did not know him, and let that small sliver of worry tuck back into a dark and unvisited corner of his mind. There was no need to create problems where they were none. The woman spoke a word ‘Fox’ and for the briefest of moments, Björn did think she was speaking of the animal, but before he could even redirect his attention in search of one she elaborated. Fox it seemed was the fire kissed girl’s name. Caribbean blue eyes assessed her quickly once more, giving an infinitesimal nod of his head. It was a befitting name, in a sense, but Björn did not linger long upon this thought.

Ears, scarred and unscarred pivoted back to rest at half mast atop his skull for a few seconds before they twitched forward as he shifted his weight, paws scuffing the dirt. “Fox,” Björn repeated, mostly saying it to himself as if mimicking it would help him to remember. Would he remember her from a few days from now? Björn didn’t know. “What brings you out here?,” Björn paused, glimpsing around at the ducks that waddled about their business intended to ignore the two canines in their presence. “It can’t be for the peace and quiet.” A soft snort escaped Björn’s black, leathery nostrils a playful little smirk tugging at his lips ever so slightly. In truth, the Viking was not good with idle chit-chat, and the girl did not seem to be very talkative, either.