Greatwater Lake Scrawny Motherfucker with a Cool Hairstyle

Aleister is buzzing. His eyes light up as he watches the boy mouth what he's almost certain is his own name- and he can almost hear it as it spills from the stranger's maw. It's a pivotal moment for him, he thinks. He's shared his name.

He doesn't have time to dwell on the notion, though, because the other is trying to say something to him. He tries not to dwell on that, either. Aleister is going to have a lot of things to freak out about later. He glances down from the ruby eyes set into the spotted wolfdog's face down to his mouth as he drawls out a word. The word seems to drip along like molasses as he speaks, and the little ghost is near-certain now that he's trying to sound it out for him. Gods it's not like pronnunciation's gonna do much for him anyway.

Aleister's ears flick slightly, a subtle annoyance buzzing in him before he forces it away. He has no right to be frustrated with the piebald boy, he's trying. That's what counts. Nonetheless, Aleister intends to communicate clearly. He shakes his head briskly, meeting the boy's eyes again before repeating his name once more, the sylables concise and crisp, before motioning with his nose in the boy's direction, eyes expectant and encouraging.