Broken Boulder the sweet far thing

Such was the direction of the wind and his attention, Ico's first indication of the stranger was his voice, and his heart lurched so hard it might've moved in his chest. Perpetual hunger demanded that first he notice the dead weasel, but the wolf very easily drew the eye.

He was as tall as a horse, slinky and shadowy, sunlit and sea-eyed but seeming to wish he was the same colour as his surroundings. But such was his presence, a silly thought sprang to mind —

T'was he broke the boulder!

Or the cold, but Ico did not understand how that was possible. Head now a little lower, ears a little flatter, Ico blinked nervously at his fellow loner, trying not to look at the juicy dead weasel. "Somewhere to stay put", he replied. "I don't suppose... I don't suppose you live here?" he asked uncertainly, apology preemptively threaded into his light voice.