Silvertip Mountain Zhavvi does not cry.

The multi-toned beauty seemed exuberant at Masons’s choices. He felt another blush – hotter this time – burst through his skin when she leaned forward to provide a chaste kiss on his cheek. 

She repeated the words he had suggested; they sounded softer and more feminine from her own tongue than they had been from his. Mason waited with baited breath to see what she would choose. She altered the later one (his favourite all along, he immediately decided) ever so slightly and determined that this would be her new name. Despite the small alteration, his success was still evident, and he chuffed excitedly. “Welcome” he responded, his voice turning gruff with pleasure and he dipped his head with a blink of his eyes, fortunately missing the lick his father received.

Mason’s ears twitched to the back of the den where he heard a beetle scurrying against the floor, its legs giving off a faint clickety-clack. His eyes returned to burn on the sight of his father and Zhavvi. A hint of displeasure nestled amongst the orange irises and he hastened to interrupt the moment. “Zaria, do you want to play ‘I Spy’?” he spoke slowly, hoping she would be able to follow his words. It was easy for him to understand her relative difficulty with the language – looking after June had given him an innate set of skills in discerning levels of intellect against speech. He could see the intelligence there, despite her troubles.