Deepwood Weald Mythical Mithril

Marruz's day had been leisurely at most. For all the recent activity, he found that these times of rest were quite useful and something to be enjoyed. Thus, the boy had taken to his usual stroll across his new homeland, mapping out the territory with a growing sense of familiarity.

Being the young stripling that he was, the willowy youth made excessive rounds. It wasn't difficult for him to notice any subtle changes in the ambience of the Weald, so of course his ears pricked at the first sound of life like his. The dark needles that were his legs finally stopped their endless threading, and he directed his cold heterochromic gaze towards the source of the audition. 

It wasn't always on purpose that the darkling was a stealthy one. One might consider it a habit or a simple biproduct of design that he was naturally silent as the dead. Nevertheless, it favored him now as he stood there, listening in quiet contemplation.

He could tell it was Moira, yet another relative he had recently unearthed, and the thought was a tad shocking even for the nonplussed Marruz. She was singing, after all. And what bothered him even more — smoldering like icy-hot coals within his stomach — was the fact that he missed it. He missed song and he missed his mother. But his father would soon arrive. 

Slowly, he approached. He didn't know why but his paws were moving with a mind of their own and he didn't resist. He just didn't want to resist anymore. Before he knew it, it was irreversible. And all he could think to do was make himself known before the situation became embarrassing. So he cleared his throat almost too loudly and, with an eerily cool exterior, said, "That sounds beautiful."