Seaside Moors there was once a poet

a familiar figure emerges from the depths of the territory; ruddy pelt giving rosalyn away. the hope tangling in his wind pipes, expands like a blossoming bloom in his throat and the noise that vibrates upward is indisputably a crow of affection, of an apology. like the tide of two different seas tug and pull, warring within him. his lips part with the desire to speak a greeting, to breath mama — the want a palpable desire that pulses from him like the vibration of a drum — but nothing more than the crowing noise pushes itself from parted lips tangling with the air he expels from lungs. speech eludes him still. taunting, teasing but pirouetting away at the seconds he rumbles the first noise in the base of his throat.

for a moment, scarab is blinded by frustration; ever a plaguing presence as he temporarily forgets that he has learned to communicate through body language, through expressions and the feral noises he can make.

his tail wags slow and then drumming in pace, expressing his unbridled joy at seeing her away, only to let out a soft whine in invitation. to say he's 'good' was ..well a lie. he's suffers mentally of his own accord. he offers her a sheepish shrug of his shoulder attempting to communicate 'i'm ok'.