Storm Watch Butte gunslinger I

A mulch of phonemes went in one ear and out the other. Lynx could barely delinate the boundaries between his words, softened like toffee by the accent. There was no chance he could catch his name.

Pio argá, pio argá, he insisted, flapping a paw. Friend, here? No.

Words swarmed at his mouth. He felt if he didn't let them out, he would explode. Not a bloodless affair either - guts plastering the walls, the sunburnt face of his savior.

Den eímai kanénas. Den to vlépeis? Eímai-

He groped for the right word, ruff bristling, a mad genius or a mad fool, as if there was a difference. 

-eímai eléftheros! In the confined space, his voice sounded all around him, a physical force.

Finally he calmed enough to mirror the man's lax position. But the lashing of his tail betrayed him. Lynx wore his heart on his sleeve although it was not a heart that warranted much admiration.

Now I am with you, Foineus.