Cerulean Cape blood canticle

Words she could scarcely grasp—were it not for the gestures that brought them to life. Drusk. Was that his name? He had repeated it, threading it through other strange sounds she had never heard before. Such a name—she couldn’t recall ever encountering anything like it. Drusk. What was it? What could it possibly mean?

As he began to circle her in turn, she lowered her head, unsettled by his recent revelations and grasping at any thread of logic that might offer a plausible conclusion. Head aligned with her spine, she too began to move, pacing around him—two strange vultures, turning around one another.

She had brought her nose into play as well, seeking the subtlest traces of information. He too carried the scent of wild lands. He had traveled. He did not seem to have settled anywhere of late. It was only his scent, and the wilderness clinging to him.

Drusk, she echoed, her voice shaded with uncertainty. The Drusk—was it a mighty beast? Was it the hue of his coat? A tint unknown to her ears and eyes? Or perhaps he was still a novice in the art of the hunt, unworthy as yet of a complete name. In the Hunting Ground, names bore particular weight, laden with meaning—clues by which one could judge the being who stood before them.

So it was without pride that she gave her own, a name she intended to shed soon—through a true act of the hunt.

Ivory Beaver. She dipped her head. Have you never hunted for glory?

He spoke. He listened. Of that, she was now certain. But did he understand? That was another matter. Still, this simple introduction had been enough for the woman in the ivory coat to set aside her rising frustration, to soften the edge of her growing annoyance.

And yet—was she not already brushing up against another barrier? Would he offer more words in return?