Fox's Glade silvertongue

The woman was appreciative, from what he could tell. She uttered a small word of thanks before providing a calling and then an inquiry that left him mildly baffled. The savage little pilferer gaped at her for a moment, fur ruffled along his neck, and regarded her with a touch of confusion. Tadec had been called many things in his young life, but nice had never found its way to the list of adjectives that embodied his form. There was a trace of pleasure in the thought that she found him genial. This pleasure manifested itself in the form of a shriveled smile on his pointed muzzle; the tips of his canines poked from beneath his lip.
 
“This one is called Tadec,” he introduced to her with a nervous bob of his head. Then, he analyzed the second half of her question. If she had meant it in a rhetorical nature, she may not have actually needed an answer. The dark halfling thought it rude, so he shrugged his shoulders and peered at her with an interested light in the embers of his gaze. “Tadec collects… imperfection.”
 
Though he had never admitted it to another, the bandit imagined that she could do very little harm with the information. The coywolf did not want her to think that she would be taken captive by him, so he made a great deal of effort to appear unassuming and earnest in what little he could say. The words were drawn out and challenging on his tongue, but he managed well enough aside from being stiff and formal in his phrasing. The tip of his tail twitched again at her.
 
“Not the same as other wolves. Indra is different. Indra is fierce; bright.”