Ravenshook Cliffs compelled to write with aching fearful hands

Great, an accent—the first thought that crossed his mind. There had been a fair share of the few-of-words and exotic rumbles in the past, but this seemed more watered down. No, not just watered down, but fluid in its approach. It made sense when the last words off the wolf's tongue were something about a bog and then he was racking his own mind to ponder where he had seen such a place. It threw him off, but the absent of such surprise or concern betrayed the reality.

It was a trip down memory lane as he hummed in thought, his head turning slightly to peer back the way he came. ”A bog,” he said, almost reiterating the question. ”I've seen one before, but I think it's a bit of a travel to the south. Long ways from here is the short of it,” because he was pretty sure once upon a time, his sisters had tried to shove him into a series of them and vice versa.

His gaze rounded back to the bearlike wolf, curious.

”Can't imagine why anyone would want to go to such a place,” he went on, ”but you're not from around here. There are hot springs closer than the nearest bog.” They were cleaner by far too, but he managed to keep that behind his teeth and offered a wan smile instead.

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