Jade Fern Grove a graveyard of stars

a flick of an ear is given; a volley of glimpses between the pale stranger and the lily of the valley. the stranger speaks of a pack, his pack — legion, he calls it — north of their current position that does not tolerate strangers lingering too close to their borders. kvasir does not point out that he thinks that is protocol for most packs. a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement is given. fair enough, he says after a moment, considering that he should give some sort of verbal confirmation that he understands. something more than a noise barely more than a grunt. i don't think i'll need to go further than this territory. the silencer adds. in truth, he doesn't want to stray too far away from his find and risk the potential of losing his own way.