Felltree Marsh the hanged man

The inflection in the woman’s face made Masquerade swallow, though before she could fret that she’d offended her the way she’d evidently pestered her brother, the woman dropped the word “flattered.” That, paired with her perfectly amiable tone, quickly eased the tension in the youth’s neck and shoulders.

She asked a question, though before Masque could think of how to answer, she answered it herself. That was a rhetorical question, she mused, having recently learned the concept from one of the rise’s Heafod. By the time the Bearn drew this conclusion, her new acquaintance had already moved on again. She seemed to have quite a lot to say.

Masquerade didn’t mind. She managed to get in a shrug to answer the second to last question, then tipped her head toward the hillock behind her. She glanced that way, curious if Relic or perhaps another of the guardians might have spotted her. Was there a word for what she was doing: the opposite of trespassing?

Facing the grimy she-wolf again, she said quietly, I live there, and gestured with a foreleg. It’s called Redtail Rise. My mother is the leader. I’m Masque. She paused. If you don’t live here, where do you live?