Cerulean Cape blood canticle

He had little regard for whatever she might have said—at least, that was the impression Beaver had taken from it. When he had drawn near to catch her scent, her tail had lashed the air instinctively, a sharp crack like the snap of an irritated jaw. She knew males—Beaver did—the rough-edged types from Hunting Ground, but never had one approached her in such a manner: wordless, without forewarning, without even the courtesy of a name.

And yet, she had let him be. Her muzzle had crinkled, not so much from unease, but from a mounting impatience, awaiting a response that never came.

...Red. Red Bison. That’s my sister’s name, she said at last, hoping the name might stir something in him, might ring a bell somewhere in the recesses of his memory. What are you—mute? Or just one of those lumbering brutes too full of himself to bother answering a woman? Her words came low, tinged with the faintest growl.

Where she came from, travelers were few. There was only one tongue, one people, one way of life. The lands of Teekon would be a true journey for her—an unknown path that began, oddly enough, with this silent stranger.