Lake Bismuth "Ill fate and abundant wine."

Colt Briggs spoke again in the strange and boneless language, but the wry twist of his voice made Lynx smile as well, bemused, his smile subtle as the curve of a spoon.

But they set out with intention that went beyond language - their volition trod a path before them and revealed much about the world. Their nostrils flared as they took in the hot air and as their brains parsed it without thinking, old wolf-scent there and fresh rabbit droppings here, a breeze blowing northeast, all of this and more slipping into the unconscious.

Dark figures of mallards sat on the silver surface of the lake, their heads shining bottle green in the heady light.

Pápies, he pointed out, almost to himself. One spread its wings for a moment, flashing blue speculums. When was the last time he had to hunt for himself?