Bearclaw Valley it means i'm broken and lame

though, perhaps as any trained warrior should, joaquin had not been aware that he was the target of a playful hunt. in the aftermath, he might consider how grandfather would be horribly disappointed with that knowledge, but in the here and now the st. clair's defense was as good as any truth that came from the lips of the keeper of secrets: he was more focused on learning the layout of his new home; distracted. curious, in a subsidiary fashion, about the bear god(s) he hears tell of.

hey you!

the announcement of a stranger's voice laced deep with perceived familiarity ...wrongful familiarity. startled, joaquin turns around to face his new packmate; brow raising into a questioning arch as she informs that this is a case of mistaken identity. joaquin knows that in terms of standing out he did not stick out quite as much as alexandre or some of his other relatives; he was lucky his merle was a soft, smoke grey and blended well enough with the obsidian of his coat that in some instances it probably wasn't even noticeable.

it's quite alright, because while raised by mobsters, joaquin had not been raised by boars. his tone is low, attempting to assuage and brush off any notion of embarrassment she might hold to. i'm joaquin, he offers his name in introduction, tail shifting against his hocks; amiable. and you are ...? he encourages.