Bramblepoint o achilles,

tvar caught the scent of a stranger long before he’d caught the shape of him.

sharp and young, touched with wander-dust and bramble sap, something foreign threaded through the musk of mesa dirt. from what he can smell, there in him lay no threat, no reason to be wary.

still, his guard lifts like a hackle. head raising to survey his surroundings, to lay eyes on @Falk in the few feet behind him.

tvar and his son approach from the opposite side of bramblepoint, the rabbit he’d killed earlier hanging limp in his jaws, half for himself, half for falcon. the thorns drag across his flank as he pushes through, but he doesn’t hiss or flinch, simply shoulders onward until the gray sky opens.

tvar steps out into the open, broad and dark against the frost-browned grass, evergreen eyes narrowing only a breath.

what tongue is that? tvar speaks through the muffle of rabbit's fur. tossing it then to the feet of falk, handing it off to the boy. if you don't mind me asking.