Cricket Creek Bog Searching

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ah-h-h-h yes, he drags his nail across his neck oh so slowly, caught up as she is in the plight of the poor loner, the unfortunate rogue who has been relieved of his voice! he so very nearly believes it himself and ysengrim's eyes are a disquieting kind of sadness in themselves. in a way, he is bound not to speak for himself - for others, yes, but for himself? nothing.
you truly cannot speak?
he shakes his head, eyes sorrowful but a-twinkle with knowing gaze. he speaks not through words, indeed, but his gaze is expressive as ever and his lips curl up into a silent smile. ah, no! so sadly is the pretty lady wrong in assuming his inability to communicate with actual voice but she is still not wrong.
he gestures at the cricketsong, motions to the falling leaves and the last of the branches a-turning bare. he enjoys it, yes, but then he knows death is scarlet, and scarlet bleeds out across snow-white.
oh! she wants tales of his life as a rogue, but in truth he is no longer rogue - although ysen does suppose that the scent of his lord does not linger well on his frame. he has not set foot inside the territory truly. lingering on outskirts and so his scent does not seem to belong... the youth shakes his head again. no, no, no - life as a loner is not hard.
he bares his teeth in a small, apologetic grin. boys have no stories to share, he seems to say with it, and notes to himself the recent pack-scent on this woman as well. pack-life suits one well, then?
"speak"

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