The mark on her forehead did not keep his attention as much as her hair. Eris had bore a mark in the same area. Yet as she spoke, his eyes returned to her own. These were green and otherwise unremarkable. “Depends on where y’sleep,” he commented. His last winter had been spent in the Khalif. There it was always cold for the outcast, who was banished from traditional dens, banished from direct interaction with the mountain folk, banished from all of those things that would have given him comfort. Larkspur knew the cold well, though his coat was thick enough to fend it off. Sometimes he didn’t feel anything at all.
At her gesture, which he understood as one of regret, he smiled in a way that did not meet his eyes. He was used to people staring, which was in part why he had isolated himself so far away from the pack. “So I’ve been told,” he grunted, flicking one ear dismissively. “There ain’t no reason t’worry ‘bout it.”“Y’wanna go in?”
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