Silvertip Mountain don't forget from whence you came

sorry I kept this waiting, yall can skip me after this!

The boy was as silent as ever, but he stuck close to Phocion. Often literally. He wondered what he would do when they reached their destination— it seemed like ages he had been wandering now, and he was loathe to settle down. For the white priest, though, he would. Twice his savior and consistently the focus of his attention, Phocion had quickly become the center of the sunset Mayfair's world.
Cortland moved to press against his friend as he sat, nuzzling against his neck for a moment before he sent up his call. He knew it was for his friend— Poet, the healer he had spoken of. Quietly, he watched and waited. Guilt flitted across his face when the woman appeared, and he looked down. Of course he remembered meeting her in the field; he had not told Phocion of the encounter, though, and wondered nervously if Poet would. She did not say anything, though, and after a few beats he dared glance up at her. Relief settled through him as he decided her expression spoke of no ill feelings, and he relaxed slightly, still waiting.