Silvertip Mountain you only hear the music when your heart begins to break

He could have cried when Phocion finally began to speak; instead, he smiled, the expression best described as delighted. His tail thumped gently against the ground as the priest told his story. Ypsilos— he committed the name to memory, watching his friend with sparkling moonlight eyes. A guide of sorts, in the sky; Cortland rather liked the idea. He wondered then if there was a reason Ypsilos lay to the north— he wished he could ask.
Instead, he admired his priest, smile brightening with fond amusement at his last words. Cortland leaned closer, brushing his nose against Phocion's cheek. He let the touch linger, grooming the fur there softly for a few long moments; he was still mindful of his healing tongue (it was something you never quite forgot). As he pulled back slightly, he whined again, low and drawn out— but this was a pleased sound, something to express his joy and gratitude at what his friend had provided. Still, he mourned the loss of words in this moment.