Silvertip Mountain but what's inside you?

in the pursed lips, the skeptical brows, the ears folded back. he could feel it without having to see it. in the hesitation, the minced words, the question. why not? he breathes, turned away. his voice, soft as it was, wrests some of the bats from their roosts. the flap of black on black, it brushes his hair off of his face.
littermate. an answer that wasn't really an answer. why wouldn't you be closest with your littermate? he chews at his lip. two trains of thought rattle through his mind. one, don't bullshit a bullshitter. two, this is all just smoke and mirrors.
he walks in silence. the air is damp and occasionally there is a breeze as if the cave is breathing its own laboured breaths. he was never good at small talk.