Storm Watch Butte A little party never killed nobody.

he doesn't know what he expects. it is not as if signaling could suddenly break the barrier between them. as the hide falls to the floor, exasperation rounds his shoulders.

the boy moves atop the peltskin. hopeful he might connect the bridging between them, soto leans in - his hope transfiguring into incredulity as he watches the boy sigh and -- sleep?

he cannot fault youth for their promptness in attending compelling needs.

now they must wait; he allows his eye to drag over towhee and recall their tryst -- which he had enjoyed thoroughly -- while they waited. she signed something, and then leaned close to whisper something, but once again both languages may well have been ancient runes to soto.

fiamma. soto rises immediately, motioning to the duo next to him as fiamma tilted an ear in inquiry. les pregunté dónde está la sangre. he paused, looking back at the boy curled in sangre's velveteen bed-furs. no sé lo que dicen.