Firestone Hot Springs the bones of the liars, the thieves

Rian had admittedly closed his eyes as he soaked up the warmth of the stone upon his flesh, and stretch as if he had no care in the world — he didn't — and nearly jumped out of his skin when a deep and unfamiliar voice broke the serene quiet of the hot springs. Startled, his eyes snapped open and irises in their transition from baby, milky blue to imperial jade green landed upon the stranger, his gaze wild. “You scared me, mister.” Rian accused, chiding the older male, his ears slicking back to his skull. His irritation was like his short attention span: it did not last long and fizzled almost as soon as it had sparked to life. Slowly, his ears perked atop his skull and his tail gave a few amiable beats against the ground beneath him. Obviously the stranger danger lesson had went in one of Rian's ears and zipped right back out the fucking other.

"Yes," The boy admitted with only slight sheepishness. It was then, though, that Rian caught a glimpse of red on the male's shoulder and craned his neck to get a better peek, not caring that it was probably rude and quickly forgot why he was sheepish seconds before. “Hey! That mark on your shoulder is cool,” The boy chirped eagerly in clear admiration of it. “Where didja get it?” The more important question he left unasked: where could he get one?