Flycatcher Downs a stunning dress of hellfire

the movement of his lips speak to towhee of of an accent, like honeyed whiskey on the rocks; smooth in a way that cuts off some of his words but does not leave her with too many issues reading them. he reiterates what he's assumed and a small swell of relief floods towhee as she gives a sage nod. yes, i am from here, it speaks for her.

he assumes she lives here and she casts a small glimpse 'round, not necessarily sharing that sentiment. the prairie grasses are too dry ( though it was winter and surely that played its own part ) and she had yet to find a fresh water source beyond the rain puddle. her lips twitch into something between a terse line and a frown but not quite either.

no, she offers with the shake of her head. with sun mote copse disbanded and her mother and little brother lost to the four winds as far as towhee knew, she was homeless. and while she'd been doing fine on her own for the time being, the winter had yet to really sink it's teeth in. she recognizes she may not have it so easy in the weeks to come.

she reads that he is trying to get a feel for the land — she assumes then that he is not from here — and she offers a soft shrug of her shoulders; a low huff. not quite of frustration ( she is used to being the black sheep of the world by now ); resigned.

she shakes her head and lifts her paw to her ear, mouth and throat then, a sign language sort of effort to communicate that she cannot hear nor speak. though that information makes her vulnerable, working as a natural disadvantage, it does make it easier as far as communication went.