Deepwood Weald 'cause you'll never find the answers

Marruz nodded pensively; relaxed his furrowed brow. His indigo orb - and, of course, the black if it could be seen - cast a taciturn glow on the frail creature before him. Once again, as though a staple in his conversational diet, silence enveloped the boy.

When a sufficient amount of time had passed, in which his thoughts swarmed within the moment's languor, he parted his lips with discernible lassitude. "Indeed," and he lifted the forepaw sheathed faintly in grey, so that as he stood there he examined it with particular scrutiny. "You must know quite a lot. What do they call you around here?"