Otter Creek And the book you write's magnificent

Each step taken closer revealed another component of her appearance; from the scars the marred what was likely a pristine coat once, to the feathers erupting from her hindquarters—the story that hid behind that sight was, undoubtedly, something to save as remembrance when times grow less than dreary. It was not something he was concerned with questioning, nor did he pay any mind to the down feathers clinging desperately to her lips; there was a time when he may have found humour in the sight, a time during his childhood, before his lonesome journeys.

Footsteps ceased several meters away from her, forelimbs together and head raised—a businessman, perhaps, or maybe just a man too strict to allow for a moment of relaxation. Either way, he stood poised and watchful, admiring her scars—a warrior, he wondered—and then redirection his gaze to fall into her own. And when she spoke, he was mystified, her words the common tongue yet foreign, too; he was accustomed to far less… refined mannerisms, he supposed.

“Forgive me for not understanding,” he said in turn. “How do you mean?” Even by travelling and meeting so many types of individuals, he could never understand them all. How boring life would be, had he the ability to do so.