Redhawk Caldera Twelve years dungeon.

Titmouse hadn't made a peep in days.

Nothing more than a few hoarse chirps, really. Maybe it was beginning to worry the adults (or maybe they were relieved) but it was not something that made Titmouse very happy. In retaliation for the loss of his voice he had begun to vent his frustration on the nearest body — be they sibling, parental figure, or a useless pile of rocks. He couldn't scream at them but he could kick, and headbutt, and gum them until he felt better. Except that his gums had begun to ache lately. It only added to the misery of Titmouse's existence and made him more volatile around his little potato siblings.

Thankfully at this moment he'd found a puppy-sized pile of rocks and was busying himself with rearranging them, rather than trying to reorganize the puppy pile, or chew on some ears. It didn't take much oomph to dislodge the pebbles, but he had managed to get a hefty one in to his mouth, and sat there sucking on it like a lozenge.