Little Goat Mountain bewusstsein

a nod to her mention of his sorrow. he wanted to tell he how he had chastised the dragonfire wolfess over wylla, over chusi. children were the lifeblood of the pack; this remained an eternal and core truth to the gargoyle. 
he felt himself dissolved beneath these inquiries, carefully built walls dismantled stone by stone. he was uncomfortable, but was willing to consider the new music of this song wylla was penning for the both of them.
the faces of his children had begun to blur; they had been too young to remain in stark relief. the knowledge of this shuttered mahler with anguish, but he wrapped up the details and placed them up a mental hold, suspended for later processing.
he considered the two or three small caves left in the foothills. if there was nothing to be found, he must return to diaspora empty—
a slow blink. he had not heard correctly, mahler was certain. but he had, and he regarded the casual wylla with an interior sort of horror.
"vell," he stalled, crossing long forelegs, "it is ... it is not something i notice from day to day. it only makes itself ... apparent vhen there is a reason for it to be ... apparent." 
a winning answer.
"vhy do you ask?"