Deepwood Weald are you still there inside my chest?

Marruz was slightly bemused by the woman's response. He had expected more of a retaliation, admittedly, to dull his sharp tongue. The fact made him wonder just who this was, that she might resist predictability. He was intrigued, to say the least.

He did not move, not even when he spotted a sliver of fur bridging the distance. His indigo gaze watched with the aptitude of a hawk, stark and immodest. He listened to the motions; listened for the weight of the stranger and the versitality. He gathered that this was no blundering, loaf of a wolf, and that was enough to appease his roaming mind.

My paws is what he wanted to say. But Morruz was not quite that much of a fool, to stick his head into the lion's mouth. He tucked his single grey muff up into the thick fur of his chest.

"Nothing," he responded impassively. He blinked before adding, "Perhaps you might know?" And while they left his lifts with a satirical clip, there was some depth behind the words that made it clear: he was searching for answers.