Barrow Fields i hated how people shouted at me for looking different.

If the common tongue confused the man at times, whatever vitleysa fell from the pretty female's mouth just now truly baffled the man, his dark eyes staring at her for a moment as he tried to make sense of it. There was a moment, fleeting but prevalent, that Stjornuati wondered if he had lost what sense he had but such a notion was swept away, ushered by the wonderment of another language.

A long shot though it was, the light-furred man volleyed a question in his own language at her, wondering if she knew his tongue, despite he not knowing hers? Þú talar ekki sameiginlega tungumálið? His question was answered rather swiftly, however, when she offered him food in the language he had been making much more use of this last moon-cycle than he had ever before in his life.

Curiously, he watched as the kona nudged her kill towards him, ears perking gently as the small wave of his tail signified his pleasure at this overture. Þakka þér fyrir. The words were accompanied with a dip of his head before Stjornuati settled near the woman, drawing the offered meal closer to him with his teeth, golden crested neck stretching slightly so that he could do so. This one hungered, He would finally speak in a way that she could understand, setting teeth to bone to pull a strip of flesh from the carcass in a wet tear of sound.