Two Eyes Cenote is that it? are you not allowed to talk?

it is something of a balm to know that despite that their culture is rich — and to a newcomer green behind the ears: overwhelming — that this pack is still new. he takes small mindful bites not wanting to eat like a heathen in front of her.

a small sip of wine is taken, content to hear her speak about this place, and offering an answer to what he has asked but not much more.

intentional? or not? stark wonders.

not too far. it was about a week's travel from here, he hedges. my father was born in these wilds and settled a little bit outside them in a place he called greyjaw hollow. i suspect he kept close though, in case he wanted to come back. or maybe it was so one of us might find ourselves curious and find our way here. like me goes unsaid but nests itself into his words all the same.

he is hungrier than he'd first though and polished off his hare quicker than he'd meant to and cleans his jowls a bit sheepishly, lowering to a sphinx-like position of relaxation, though his gaze is clear and focused as it settled back upon her.

were you born to this culture?