Swiftcurrent Creek i'm in your back pocket, take me out when you get curious

a grown and healthful adult wolf, mahler neverthless had been seemingly born without the ability of expression. therefore, he watched the child slip from her perch upon his muzzle to the ignominy of earth-smacked hindquarters with nothing beyond a slight widening of his eyes to evince he had taken stock of her predicament.
the soot-grey muzzle dipped; mahler feathered his breath over her velveteen ears and along her nape, attempting in his silent and careful movement to reassure the girl of her safety in his presence. the croon that had previously stemmed from her small throat was one of music, low notes; the wretched thing had not forgotten his need for composition in the face of arriving to the creek.
mahler wished to hear it again — when the babe had, with hope, not broken into a crescendo of her own, he overturned one large paw to reveal the scarred texture of its underside. "keine tränen, entlein." the gargoyle muttered with approximate warmth. she could not understand him; the language itself stuck in his craw with disuse, but all the same he found pleasure in the clipped tones.