Dragoncrest Cliffs there are echoes of thundering hooves

She felt more alert and eager than she had since father had died and though there were times that she would pause and feel guilt over that, she mostly allowed herself to be consumed by her new tasks. It was the small seedling of anger in her chest— a development that she was unaware of— that drove her, that attracted her to the art of war. It promised a release that she didn't know, but felt she needed. War was something romantic to her now; a violent game of pretend, one without lasting damage, and something that did not actually occur in real life.

As keen as she was to begin sparring with her new pack mates, to learn to fight as she had so simply stated to Casmir, they were all busy with the business of settling in to their new home. Rather than dwell on that, she instead threw herself into a task that was typically reserved for the strong and athletic— a parallel to her role within Donnelaith as watcher of the forest— patrolling and marking the borders. She chanted softly beneath her breath as she did so, knowing that magick was not known to these wolves, but deciding that bolstering the invisible wall that protected their home with hexes against those that would do them harm couldn't hurt.

His paws were determined to step on every inch of the ground of their new territory. He had gotten so used to the Dragon's slopes, but now he felt awkward. The land here was remarkably different. Salt filled everything here. From the ground to the air, trapping inside his fur. It was disgusting. How did wolves even live near the ocean? He would make a point to stay as far away from the cliffs as he possibly could, though he doubted it would help much.

But the pack had established its new borders, and Hush had to throw his scent onto the invisible wall. He did his usual dance of leg raising and scratching and rolling, rubbing his scent at varying intervals where he smelled the others'. He was not alone. A female was walking along the borders just as he did, though she did not rub her scent. Instead she spoke softly to herself as she patrolled. Hush cocked his head, trotting over to her and chuffing softly. What on earth was she doing?

"... Lig diobhail le haghaidh Drageda thuitfidh ar an namhaid ina ionad," she murmured softly as she walked the border, though she stopped abruptly as a male came up behind her and chuffed a greeting. Emaleth stood, stiff-legged and cautious as she inhaled to analyze his scent— though upon sensing that Thuringwethil's was intermingled, she relaxed substantially. Though she had forged much of her life anew in the past weeks, small talk was still not one of her strengths, and when she spoke again it was for an awkward, "Hello."

She spoke a strange tongue, stranger even compared to the Drageda wolf tongue, which he had grown used to. He hadn't met her yet, which meant that they would go through the "oh you can't talk" shtick once more. He shrugged at it, knowing that it would happen again and again so long as people keep coming in, or, really, so long as he was alive.

He nodded to her in greeting, his expression bright and welcoming to compensate for his muteness, as he always did.

He was quiet, merely shrugging his shoulders. Her brows bent at that, wondering what she had done to deserve such a reaction. As she finished speaking, "Hello," however, the male nodded and his expression opened to one far more welcoming. "I'm Emaleth," she told him politely, "It's good to meet you, ser." The yearling did wait expectantly for a response, having never met a mute before, though the silence was at once a comfort and agonizing to the introvert. Silence was good, but small talk was unbearable.

She greeted him with a formality he had not seen often, less so with one her age. It, in a way, made this encounter all the more cringe worthy — such words demanded an answer. He chuffed, inclining his head once more, then smiling sheepishly, waiting for her to realize, as all others did sooner or later.

"Oh," she finally said, softly. "You can't speak?" If he could, surely the male would have said something by now— and Emaleth felt her ears grow hot with embarrassment at the realization. As removed as the dark witch often was from others, she only knew of one way to truly interact with and understand them. She already felt like she had blundered, and it felt rude to ask how they were to communicate or to simply walk away. Should she attempt to converse with him as she would anyone else? She looked at him sheepishly. Sorry.

He nodded, glad that she finally understood. It was a hassle to explain it to those who did not know him. Most of the time the pack spread it through word of mouth, but, alas, sometimes he had to do this charade. He smiled, nudging her as a way of forgiving her. It was not everyday someone met a mute. How were they suppose to know?