Seaside Moors my boy builds coffins with hammers and nails

As the invitation was confirmed, he glanced at his packmate curiously, wondering. Was this woman important to him? A friend—or family? The latter seemed unlikely but the former… he wondered how it came to be, if it proved true; for what other reason would someone invite another to their pack, if not due to friendship? “I see,” he commented, albeit somewhat absentmindedly, thoughts preoccupied. Slowly, his gaze shifted back to the woman, all the more curious now. If they were friends… how? Eventually, he decided, he would ask her—but for now, there were other matters that took precedence.

When his mother tongue was repeated back, a flicker of surprise passed through his expression. She was not the first to try her hand at the language, no—but she was the first beyond those few northerners he knew to speak it appropriately, the ghost of an accent clinging to the syllables. “Are you—?” he paused and gave a slow shake of his head, the sentence lost. “Tundra and Bertók,” he repeated their names instead, testing the bird’s. “You can both join us. A friend of Rosencrantz’s is a friend of Rusalka, too.” He wanted to trust his Gamma’s judgement of character, despite everything.