Deepwood Weald Mythical Mithril

Marruz blinked, shifting thoughtfully on his paws. He was thankful that the woman had not cut her melody to an abrupt halt; he rather enjoyed its somber cadence. Indigo and black orbs closed for a moment as he listened, engulfing himself in the different scenes in which the tune might have fallen. 

Meanwhile, he noted the fact that this mysterious bird was indeed a medic. Whether or not it proved useful at the present, you just could never be certain what assets played nascent roles. He imagined that he was dying — that this was the sound of his departure, pushing him away from the world. It made him feel oddly at peace.

"What do you call it?" Marruz was hesitant to break the chord, but his curiosity was stronger. He kept his eyes closed and tried not to sway, though his chin bobbed subtley with the tempo. Yes, it was something he would remember — a fitting tribute to the dead, the dying, and the surviving.