Wheeling Gull Isle east is up

There were a few awkward moments between which the cub slipped from his nape, hitting the dusty floor neatly before settling at his side. He feels her eyes upon him—maybe it is his imagination—but the fur of his neck stands on-end for a breath, and he turns to look at her, but finds he cannot meet her gaze. The boy does recognize a sense of wonder in her expression and it makes him feel strange—embarrassed, spotlighted, perhaps even freakish.

She speaks, or at the very least makes a noise. He lowers so that his head is at her level and his hawkish eye trains upon her, but then it mists and he looks through her. He does not know what an ood is, but he entertains her all the same by attempting to parrot the sound back: Oo-t, he says, finding the sharp sound easier to make with his teeth, like the crackling of before.

Strange, though, that a cub would be the one to revive his conversation skills.