Razorback Ridge my armor is harder than most

ehh, don't mind my awkward, ramble-y posts while i try to figure gojira out.

the area is forested but the terrain is uneven with jutting boulders; of landslides past and covered with moss of varying shades of green and brown. the poignant scent of moss musk and sharp tang of rock is strong but not strong enough to conceal the traipsing scents of woodland creatures — and of course the pack wolves who's claim he cannot help but walk close to. gojira has no experience with any wolves outside of the copse he grew up in. coveted at their claim's heart where his den site had become an alter; of fresh caught prey, of worried bones, of shiny pieces of seaglass from the typhoon bay, and of whispered confessions and prayers.

if he hadn't known about his parentage, that his blood father was a god in mortal flesh released sometime before his birth, gojira would've found this attention strange.

not knowing anything else, it does not perturb him the way he will come to learn that it should.

the sound of approaching footfalls draws back his torn ear; tall and erect like his late father's, lazily. singular eye roves the terrain, a quick sweep to be sure he is not to walk into anything before he peers over his shoulder to catch sight of the slight wolf — male, purebred — lingering behind him like a curious kage.

gojira stops then and turns to face the stranger, tail offering a curious and amiable sway against his hocks. hell-o. the common word feels awkward on his tongue; not sounding right as he naturally wants to space the word out unnecessarily. his knowledge of common and how to articulate it correctly is askew; largely self taught. his imperial parents had insisted that his purpose in the world outside of the copse did not rely on talking.