The Sentinels come to my arms, my beamish boy!

that the stranger reacts to his presence should not be surprising, yet caligula still finds himself caught off guard by the demand. her voice is not so much louder than his own, but any noise is loud here; there are not the insects nor the birds to muffle it, there is no sound beyond the wind and the gentlest of rain. there is yet enough light for him to see, though, the other figure turn, ears angling forward in a mirror of his own.

he has already made his presence known; there is no reason for hesitation, only that it has been a long time since he has held any conversation that was not with his only friend. he is afraid he has rather lost touch with the ability.

“i – ah – caligula,” he calls back, unsure whether her words were indeed a request for a name. for a moment that is all that lingers between them, but it does not seem enough, even if caligula is certain he is not treading claimed ground. “i am not…i am just passing by.”