Honeyed Pasture she got me going crazy

Tattered ears swiveled upon Szymon’s skull as Deirdre’s voice called reassuringly to him, but in the next moment they thrust forward attentively, cupping to focus on Rowan Mayfair’s response to his bland conjecture. The knowledge that Deirdre was coming — and soon, if the nearness of her call had been any indication — soothed the boy’s jangling nerves. He regarded Rowan carefully as he shaped his sharp, angular musculature into a patently nonchalant sitting position. “I am f-f-fond of D-D-Deirdre,” he said frankly, his bass timbre slightly less strangled in the face of the witch’s forthcoming arrival. “Sh-She is — ” What was she, exactly? Szymon knew her to be the intended of Skellige, but he would not speak of his brother’s affairs; she had treated him with kindness, but he did not know whether he could rightly call her friend. “S-S-Special,” he decided.

Rowan’s voice was low and gentle, pleasing to Szymon’s ears, though he was not at all certain what he had done to deserve such kindness. It made him wary, as did most things, but this was not betrayed outwardly — it was simply an integral part of who he was. “If y-y-your n-need of her is p-private, I will g-g-go once th-this has b-b-been d-delivered,” he told her, gesturing toward the large haunch of meat at his paws. He had come to deliver meat to the girl — food for her pack from his first ungulate kill — but he did not have any pressing topics of conversation. He merely wished to see her, to know that she was well, and to give her this token of his affection and gratitude.