Flycatcher Downs the art of getting by

Esche turned the ballad over again in his head, half hoping to commit it to memory, half wanting to pick and pluck at the different verses. Like he had picked and plucked at the doe carcass to feed his belly.
The other wolf's quip snagged his attention, though. And he grunted and made furrows in the sandy curve of his brow. He watched the dark wolf bow, but Esche was suddenly uncertain if he liked it. He felt tiny, imperceptible ridges beetle up over the bridge of his nose, not knowing how else to respond. 

The gesture belonged to civilized life, with which he was not familiar. And the well-spoken dark man with his clever ballad and humorous wit seemed like he was vastly better acquainted.
It left him feeling like an outsider, when everything was summed up. Which was stupid, he realized, to feel at a loss over something so fleeting. So benign. Still, he could not help being hostage to his own insecurities.

"I have none now," he grumbled, biting off the matter with a restless click of his teeth. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, like a kid unaccustomed to having the spotlight on him. But Esche didn't like his own answer and added as a sort of peace offering: "But I will… share when I do. When I have good stories. Then, you can make them sound better, hm?" There was a sort of brightness to his amber eyes, like the glint of light on a knife's edge. He began cleaning himself: his muzzle, his cheeks, his chest, his arms, and soon looked away into the rest of the Flycatcher Downs. "You travel with others?"