Deepwood Weald don't tell me how we've grown

Marruz was surprised that the woman even lingered. He could see her in his peripherals; a mirage reminiscent of his youth — stark and looming. He closed his eyes as she spoke, his effervescent pelage eerily static in the frigid air. And all this was confirmation that indeed, he recalled her. 

Her voice internally roused Marruz. There were notes that resembled those of his patriarch's in her softer tones. It was such a juxtaposition in his world that it seemed disconnected; fictitious. Nevertheless, his tail flicked at her inquiry, and he parted his maw without conscious preamble.

"Have I not just arrived?" thin, icy words escaped his lips. Ostentatiously prone to cracking, but biting in their resilience. The truth was that where he had come from had never been home for the boy. But who was he to dwell upon the past? Forget it. Shut it off. Yet here stood the organic shrapnel; just a few breaths ahead. And the infection was setting in.