Ravensblood Forest I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

no need to apologize! <3

it is pointed out to him that he barely looks coywolf and he resists the urge to tell her that he already knows that. for if he did look coywolf surely someone would have had something to say about it by now. he is blessed to not have the sharp angles of arturo's muddied lineage. "no." he replies honestly, though this is because, as established, he didn't look coywolf. he takes wholly after lotte and the ansbjørns. he has never faced the prejudices his father and no doubt she, herself, has faced. yet, he does not say this. even in his head it sounds bad. he offers an errant shrug and follows the flow of their conversation without intention of touching upon their hybridism again.

"if they ever founded here, for whatever reason, they are long gone." he murmurs in contemplative agreement. not that he had any intentions of sticking around if they had been there. she mentions the bleeding of the trees and he looks to the closest sequoia oozing it's sticky, red sap out of it's bark. "i don't think sap counts as blood," he says and then lets out a small noise of amusement. "it's an old wives tale meant to scare young cubs." the grin that twitches at the edges of his lips is sardonic. "ah," he breathes with a firm nod of his head when she says that the only thing she found in the forest was a wintersbane. "very elusive creatures, those winterbanes. wily. a little egocentric. stoic but otherwise pretty to look at." he mocks himself in good humor, theatric as he tends to and likes to be at times.