Deepwood Weald If crazy equals genius, then I'm a fucking arsonist

If there was anything Marruz was good for, it was detecting anguish. That or simply gravitating towards it.

Today had been like the many he had repeated now in the Weald: one of reflection and investigation. His new homestead was beautiful in that it was so fitting for its inhabitants — eerie and fey. It was as though the Melonii clan was spawned directly from its shadows.

The limber youth was weaving through a cloven tree when he first spotted yet another brooding silhouette a few paces away. Immediately, he halted and remained there, wedged between the arrow of trunks, to inspect the wolf and familiarize himself with the situation. He didn't recognize the man in particular, but there was no doubt that it was a Melonii by the inky endowment. Still, he was cautious. When it came to incestual families, you simply had no choice but to assume your brethren meshuga by default. 

After a few moments, Marruz decided he might as well make an attempt at introducing himself. The day had been boring and, while he rather enjoyed solitary hours, the boy was ready for some action. It was half the reason he had ventured so far as to be traipsing near the outskirts of the borders. He parted his lips and pushed his voice across the silence of the Deepwood; his breath uncoiling in balmy wisps, "If you're looking for trouble, I can help with that. Unless you'd like to get acquaintanced first." 

Marruz couldn't help the dry humor. It was the introvert's go-to ice-breaker.