The Heartwood And will dead lips to speak?

As always when given a question a smirk tugged at his maw. His eyes alighted on the she wolf and towards her ritual items. He categorized and figured out. Not wolf babe or oldling, no it was the hopping hares that slid and leaped through the tall grasses if he wasn't mistaken.

Clearly she was not pleased, but he found he honestly didn't care. Time for caring was past. Though she had asked an honest question, without a claw to his face or teeth to his nape so he spoke. Voice a deep rumble in the small space.

I heard your prayers. It sounded like the ones the green eyed one would chant over those gave their life blood for the queens ritual. Whichever God she chose to follow that day.