Fairspell Meadow you could set fire

Would she send him back? Maybe. But he didn't know where he'd come from and at best, he'd run until her teeth would snap at air, if it came down to it. But she seemed confused; or maybe concerned, and that concern lanced through his heart. Pity was not something the boy had ever wanted from anyone, not ever. He could not be a proud warrior, or even half the man his beloved leader had been, if others pitied him. The boy's clear eyes narrowed slightly, looking equal parts suspicious and judgemental, although he did not choose to withdraw from the other creature's presence yet — not even as she probed for information.

He was a year old now, at least. Nearly full grown. Maybe a little thin after his time on the road, but not small anymore. Not someone that could be pushed around. Crescent realized at that precise moment, that flickering split-second, that he could be anyone. He could lie and name himself differently, assume a new life, just like that — just by opening his mouth and letting the first words fall from his lips. Yet as he opened his mouth to respond, he croaked a little sound, trembled, and failed to say anything properly. The boy licked his lips, shuffling a bit in the grass and adjusting his weight awkwardly, and worked his tongue around that which it knew: Crescent, he stated calmly, quietly, just loud enough for her to hear.