Ankyra Sound Any wind means we're running

Ass, he repeated, wrinkling his nose at the pronunciation. It bothered him when he didn't know a word, even though he'd grown adept at switching seamlessly between languages in order to supply common words for the ones he didn't know. He should have known them all. Ephraim had no way of knowing how impressive it was that he'd learned what he had in such a short time. That was just part of being in an environment where no one spoke your tongue, forcing you to adapt to theirs.

He listened to Tux's warning, dipping his snout to the rough sand and sniffing deeply. He was disheartened to learn that Tux was right—other scents crossed the sand now, ones not belonging to Eurycrates. First, he queried, lingering? because he didn't know the meaning of the Trigedasleng word, then shared, He was mad when Heda told him to get lost. Maybe he wants war. The scents in the sand weren't Eurycrates', but that didn't mean he hadn't organized this himself. He'd seemed covetous enough to pull such a stupid stunt.

Lifting his lips over a fang as he completed his inspection of the sand, Ephraim vowed, not many. They'll die if they stay. Lifting his head to scan the scenery, his eyes locked onto a dark depression in the cliff face some distance away and he asked, What do you think's over there?