The wolf knew his family. Larkspur took a long moment to try and make sense of it—and he was luckily aided by the little god around his neck, which spoke in a frantic whisper and warned him of dangers unseen. Harlowe and his siblings, his mother, were likely just as worthless here as the boy was to him. Perhaps that was why the wolf was so offset by him. The thought made his face twist, pupils dilating and swallowing the light around them. Maybe he had been wrong.
Another noise drew him from the fog and he looked down, surprised to hear that they kept animals. For as dumb as he was, the brute knew what sheep were; he had killed several on his journey to this place with Misery. He grunted a little at the idea of a one armed man fighting a sheep. “Ah used t’live there. Conor and I didn’t see eye to eye,” he added, finding it necessary to explain his scent. “Eye” was horribly mangled by his speech, turning it into a drawled out thing sounding more like "aaaah". “Any type uh fur would keep ya warm, if’n the sheep r’too much trouble.”
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