Sleepy Fox Hollow Catacombs and water mains.

In a small way, it rankled Anselm that Etienne withheld information from him. But he was not Wylla’s son for nothing — and he’d picked up a trick or two being in Wylla’s constant shadow. 

His gaze followed Etienne’s towards the bushes with contemplation. He didn’t like that laugh — however small, it signified he was not being taken seriously. 

Anselm swept past Etienne’s flyaway cinnamon fur in silence; some electrical exchange happened as he felt the heat from the boy’s fur as he passed. 

He stopped upon the small collection of twigs and branches, where fresh and swollen berries darkened their boughs. His leg hiked, his underside exposed as he loosened a steaming stream of yellow upon the berries beneath his feet.  

Unabashed, he held Etienne’s gaze until the contents of his bladder were exhausted. He’d learned long ago one did not need to be physical to hurt. 

For good measure, Anselm scraped the ground with his paws, kicking loam and berries behind him with contempt. Dig in, pretty boy.