His gaze remains intense upon her, those eyes of piercing emerald meeting her own gaze as if she alone is the single focus within his universe and perhaps she is. He speaks and her features move, shifting, turning, each muscle beneath her face responding to the thoughts that lie hidden in her mind, the thoughts she does not say but Lonhro sees as he sees all things. Perhaps this is his legacy, this child of Flare and Tobias cloaked in a pelt of obsidian, born to a world of no words. Perhaps he does not need words, not really, to understand what is being said as his head twists and turns about like a curious doll or a creature possessed. He waits in silence though, silence and clear curiosity of this girl from the ocean who smells of sun and salt and sand and teases at his senses with such things. He has not been to the ocean, no, Lonhro has never seen the ocean though he does not mind. He is made for shadow and night, long pelt and long tail forever trailing about behind him until he appears as a wraith or spectre as he clings to the darkness and the loner places within the pack where his mind may think more clearly on all the things he knows.

He steps forward suddenly until his nose touches her own and his breath becomes her own in an exchange almost intimate and yet one that commits her scent to memory all the same. His words are true, he likes this one and he does not like all that many. No, no, he tolerates them, yes, for he is benevolent in his kindness to tolerate them- but not this one, he does not tolerate her, he likes her in a way he does not like others so willingly. She speaks then and his ears come forward again, for they move continually about his head, listening, always, always, listening.

“Hmmmmmmm.”

It is a long, drawn out sound, as if her words take contemplation before he moves abruptly to mimic her gesture, rolling his shoulders as if testing the movement, as if deciding whether or not he should look to borrow it and make it his own. He repeats it once more, as if to be sure, though whether he fully understands the implication of the gesture remains to be seen. Her words see his gaze narrow slightly though it is not with malice, the boy of good nature- mostly- if not a striking volatility that burns within his very blood like the heat of the flames for which his Mother was named.

“Innocent….wolves do not…..have names others….remember. Lonhro thinks…..him not innocent….because name….you remember. We do not…remember those who…..never done anything.”

It is an unusual way of looking at the world perhaps and yet on some level perhaps the words are true, those whom were remembered had done something, though whether that something was good or bad was debatable and it changed with who told the story, therefore everyone was guilty of something unless no one remembered them- if no one remembered you, you had done nothing, at least nothing worth remembering. Yes, yes, he is right he is sure. If this name was known then it was known for something- the something was the thing that mattered but then….perhaps it didn’t. Lonhro does not find that he cares on the something. It is far more interesting to imagine. Such a good name to have. He will keep this name for himself, for now.

“I keep this name….is good name.”

He nods his assurance, allowing his lips to part in a dazzling white grin that shows every tooth. It is almost a charming smile, really- though it does not reach the emerald of his eyes. She ponders then and he watches still, every curious of the dark girl whom draws his mind, waiting for her to speak, to ask for a name. She does, at last, asking after the Others he had mentioned before, his ears folding backward a moment into the thick plush of his pelt so black. Such tricky questions she asks him, names he is sworn not to give but….names he knows still, other names he has made no such deal with- but he will give her the hardest of the names, you yes, the one who is hardest to find. For Lonhro is tricky, sneaky, the most cunning and it shall amuse him to watch her try and find the hidden name.

“Militas. He comes….yes…..he is one who comes……”

The soft laugh she offers draws a look of ready concern- as if the sound itself is a matter of great bemusement to him before she thanks him for the compliment he offers to her and speaks of fascination.

“Lonhro is….the most fascinating…..I am….not modest.”

That he clearly holds within himself the ability to perceive self despite his continual mention of himself in the third person is evidentially clear, along with some semblance of a sense of humour, though how intact it is remains to be seen, the boys vocabulary extending slightly now to display more skill then any child of Tobias ever has. Intelligence, it would seem, does exist in such blood. He steps back from her then, space between them once more.

“You go now? But you....remember....Lonhro yes....remember my name....Lonhro is not innocent."