His words were met by a voice he did not know, and as the bleary-eyed youth recovered from his spill in to the bushes, he was set upon by a great sorrow. It was not Mazarin, but a tiny beast - vermin-kind - which he had never seen before. At least, alive. Many pelts adorned the royal caverns of his mountain kingdom, some of which holding the same ruddy tones as this petit renard. While any other wolf of his kingdom would lash out upon the tiny thing, perhaps to bring it's body to the queen mother as a gift, not even the thought of violence placed itself within Sylvaine's own mind.
He stood and with some care, began to pull twigs out of the areas he could reach; it was an arduous task which he grew quickly bored of. My serviteurs, oh, how I miss them..
The boy drawled sleepily, and gave himself a tiny shake. A few twigs dislodged, but he remained in an unkempt state. Little renard, you confused me.
He sounded perturbed, his voice enunciating the common tongue without difficulty - although he held quite an accent still. Run along then, before I summon a guard.
Had he already forgotten? this was not his kingdom - but old habits were hard to forget.