Hushed Willows My laughter will be the last thing you hear

Warbone was rather indifferent to being obscurely called a Mother. He respected mothers greatly, after all, and gender association to him meant very little. The way he saw it, physically, you were either a planter or a grower— but those sorts of things did not dictate action or emotion. If he had compare this male to a she-wolf like Sangilak, there was not question which of two was more effeminate, so he tended to take gender roles at face value (aside from his habitually formed stereotypes he had been ingrained with as a child.) "Very nice," he repeats, as he does sometimes when he is particularly interested in a particular word or phrase that someone has said, and then he leaves it alone.

Trick babbles behind him, and Warbone thought that maybe he had misunderstood something he had said in his instructions of how the rest of their day would go. Where had that accent come from? What did it mean? Was this wolf alright in the head? The virile wolf rolled his eyes to himself, deciding to take it one step at a time with this curious bird. Thinking too far ahead or too deeply into what he said would probably start to make him angry.

"Warbone," he introduced flawlessly, feeling nothing about having to be reminded to introduce himself. He would've found out his name sooner or later, one way or another. "Trick, with your moniker and use of varying voice, you might find pleasure in being a spy for The Keep." His eyes scanned the horizon, and out beyond his territory.