a gust of wind at night

[Scree]

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Scree was competent in the high tongue, but was by no means flawlessly fluent. His grammar was less than perfect -- he was notoriously lazy about forming complicated sentences correctly, though theoretically he might know how -- and the words often came slowly, dredged back from his memory bank. After all, he didn't have cause to use the wolven speech often. "I know Fiacha and Mordulin." Feathers ruffled and smoothed again on their own accord, as avians were wont to do in the middle of conversation. Scree's mind was clearly focused elsewhere. "Lived with, for a time."



He cocked his head, as birds were also wont to do, and looked down at the wolf. Undoubtedly, she would have questions for him, and at the moment Scree's curiosity robbed him of the memory of why he'd flown north in the middle of the bloody winter, anyway. "How do you know our tongue?" He reverted back to the old words, the low words. Remembering his own days as a language-learner -- and thereby displaying an unusual politeness -- he spoke slowly and clearly, to be better understood.

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