[/html]The building, Barthélémy deduced, was noisy. It groaned and creaked and made a number of noises he thought were strictly allocated for sex, and a number of other odd, chirping sounds he was certain birds had claimed as their own. This building, he decided, was a thief. It stole other things sounds and made it its own, a new creation of sorts. But was it a marvel or a monster? Barthélémy could not decide, and did not want to; he preferred to think of it as a thief. It allowed for him to think of the building as a romantic, dashing stranger, with a dark cloak to obscure even darker thoughts and weapons. But the building was not evil-- no, it was only a building, living as any other building might.
The building quieted, and Barthélémy found himself coming back around to the front of it. He could see the path from here, and a wolf, too. The wolf's presence startled him, for he had not heard the other approach, nor had he seen him nor smelled him. The wolf seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, taking a moment to dance with his memories and imagination. Barthélémy wondered if he knew how to waltz.
Perhaps he did. Barthélémy tilted his head to one side, trying to hear what the other had said. It had been a quick, quiet sentence said mostly to himself, without any attention to Barthélémy. But that was alright; he was not important. The stranger could ignore him all he liked, Barthélémy did not mind. He was, however, curious to know where this wolf was from, for his words sounded distantly familiar. The other male pronounced them in a different way, placing emphasis where Barthélémy would not have thought to place it, and, well, simply sounding different. His words were easy enough to understand, but now the blue-eyed male was curious to know where this wolf had come from. "Hey salut. Hum..." He frowned; he did not know what to call his words, and knew that he was from what the humans had called Québec at one point, making him a québecois. But would his words be called the same thing? He settled for calling it his language, hoping the other male would not notice the mixture of informalities and formalities in his speech. He always seemed to get everything in a jumble when he was nervous. "Est-ce que vous parlez... mon langue?"
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