Honeyed Pasture Cut off his head immediately, and stick it on a pike!

There was nothing here that really held his interest. The grass swayed in the manner of the sea's pulsing, beating waves. It shifted before him with every breeze, first one way, then the other, and through it all the grass whispered long and breathy notes, as if the ground was sighing. Where he had stopped though, there was a flattened patch of dried and dead plant life; as if the sun had baked the momentum out of everything here - and maybe something had rested on this patch too, because it appeared to be rounded in some spots, like a body had previously been situated here. He couldn't detect anything amiss. Nothing that could be food for his lord, and certainly nothing wolf-like, although Tetsubo's nose was still caked internally with blood. His sinuses would take time to clear.

In his current state, he was oblivious. This lack of connection to his own faculties led to ignorance, and it was as far from blissful as the emotionally stunted boy could feel. No, he did not particularly like being without one of his very vital senses; it was an inconvenience. But this lack of ability also served to humble him, and explained why he did not notice the pale wolf until she spoke, and his immediate reaction — turning sharply at the sound, lifting the front of his lip so that his teeth gleamed and grit — was well practiced. So well practiced that he did not hesitate to lunge towards her, and similarly, to stop when he realized she was not a threat. 

A series of thoughts passed through his head. First, he saw her, and his brain said, Deirdre, for that was one of the names of his caretakers. Next, upon realizing this was not her, his natural and trained aggression piqued; yet it was her voice, the sweet and foreign sound of it, that curbed his abrupt shift of gears. There was the lurch, then the catch, and he wheezed a breath, but rooted himself in one swift movement. It would no doubt frighten her, but he did not take that into account — Tetsubo could barely recognize his own emotions, so to think of others was akin to inventing a new color.

His wheeze became a small cough, and then he turned his head and spat in to the grass, which shifted as if to protest with a gasp as the wad of spit and dried blood lodged itself against its roots. It was at this precise moment that he heard her apology, sharp but thoroughly submissive, and he is taken by surprise again; this time Tetsubo doesn't know what to do at all. He cannot attack her because she is not an adversary - nor has he been given any sort of command to do so. Yet he feels compelled to ask, For what? Because he is intensely curious himself, but doesn't know it. The boy's face crunches with imitated concern, because that's the face everyone else makes when they ask questions.