Manifesto

The sounds of the forest faded in his wake, and they sat in hastened silence awaiting the passing of the predators. One ear half turned towards the shadows in idle recognition of this, but he does not give any indication that it bothers him. He is used to it, after all. The forests of home do not often sing when Tartok is about. Silence welcomes him.

Skull stands a little straighter, a little firmer, as the mother shifts her attention to him with a scrutinizing eye. Closer now than before, he can smell more blood in the air than should be reasonable within the vole. An injury, or perhaps a larger kill than he initially discerned? He is uncertain, but does not comment. Instead his attention is focused on the oddly vibrant hue of her pelt; even in darkness it stands out. His eyes shift slowly to her face and begin to trace the pale etchings of what could only be scars.

A familiarity strikes him about those scars, but she soon speaks and draws his mind elsewhere. It becomes a furious itch at the base of his skull; he does not focus so much on the words themselves, but how they sound. Not yet. Ambition, and so plainly spoken to a stranger, too. A heartbeat passes, then another, and she takes a step towards him with a question on her lips.

"I travel by mountains." He explains. "It is what I am accustomed to." And then, "Why did you choose this place? This is dangerous terrain for children." He omits the rest of that sentence. Truly, it is only dangerous for soft meadow-whelped pups. Not for those who were born with granite in their bones.

Once more his mind supplies the ringing of familiarity, but he waits.