~ a withered heart, fluent in death
He eyes her warily, there is too much excitement, too much energy. And instead of giddy excitement that she displays, all she gets in return is a scowl that contorts his features. His tail lashes across his sides and flings the grains of sands from his unkempt hair. He does not understand a word she says as he drops his head to slake his thirst from the waters at his hooves. He drinks his fill and lifts his thick head and slings it toward her as she slides closer to him. Her words foreign to him, except for
my name, and his eyes grow wide as he understands that fraction of her native tongue.
It seems thanks is in order for Zjeena. His ears flick atop his crown as he tries her name in his head over and over.
Leilyn, Leilyn, Leilyn.
"Leilyn." he says gruffly, his voice gravelly and thick from lack of use.
"Sköl." He bobs his thick head and than says his name again.
"ég er Sköl."
He flicks his tail across his spotted hindquarters as he raises his thick head and looks down at her. He does not understand why she is practically vibrating with excitement, nor does he care. He is here to slake his thirst and find some forage in this land the gods have forsaken. And then he will move onto the next place. This is his way.
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