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dainty, distinguished — his, his, his, his.
they were lost children, thin in the teeth of winter, their pelts worn ragged by the sleepless nights and the scraps stolen from bearkills. their mother was nowhere to be found, but buffalo had not allowed byll to seek out the Sos-touched woman. She would have killed them if She returned to find them near, he believed.
and so he had taken his sister and set a trudge for them into the frozen embrace of the mountains. they had been attacked by rogues, harangued by bears — he had brought her out of it all relatively unscathed.
byll was by turns a whinging, pallid moth, and a violent flash of pale fire. her voices chunnered and spoke, but never to buffalo, who often lay down to sleep alongside one of his sister's personalities, only to awake alongside another.
today he had hunted for her and it dawned upon him, as his mispaired eyes took in byll's shivering, emaciated form, that they would die without a pack. or rather, that his sister would die; buffalo was assured of his own immortality, though he would never admit how much he leant upon byll's existence, or what her death would spell for him.
can it,
buffalo hissed, pausing at the scent-soaked borders of the first pack they had found, weary of her muttering and chanting. charmed by his own appearance, bright red across the canvas of his face, the details of which had been checked in the ice of a frozen creek, the boy called for a leader. and let me talk; don't say anything.