Blackfoot Forest you speak like constellations

a soft chuff sounds from the foliage around him, and soon mismatched gaze settles upon the earthen colored man that emerges from the forest shadows he blends so well into. cursory glimpse is given around, an instinct borne of the fact that the stranger carries the scent of others upon his pelage. thick. fresh. breath passes thru slightly parted lips as the question is posed; the assumption that he is lost grating on the silencer's nerves. it was an innocent enough question and technically he probably was. whatever map his parents stories and directions had been able to conjure into kvasir's mind was half complete and likely outdated. not half as easy to read as the smattering of stars he used to navigate himself here.

i search for my ancestral home. a place called blackfeather woods, a riposte; not an actual answer to the man's question. or not a direct answer, anyway. heard of it?