Deepwood Weald Mythical Mithril

Marruz noticed the woman's frown. Noticed how she repeated the thought; how she reacted almost like that of a shy child. And in that moment he realized that we were all just children, after all. Children with just a bit more time upon our backs. 

"It is only yours, though," he ventured indifferently. "Anyone can sing it. But it will always be because of you." And he let his gaze follow the skyline, where the heads of trees poked along and formed what looked more like crumbled mountains than proud, soaring conifers.

"I'm no good at it," he almost laughed at that. Stood. Shook out his pelt and dipped his head like the polite boy his mother would have wanted him to be. He made as though to leave before a quick chirp for goodbye: "I'll leave the singing up to you."