[ His brows draw together. He thinks of Julie, who's told him her world is devoid of animals, too. Fallen in a great plague that struck. Maybe that's what's happened here—long ago enough that its people sealed itself in what she calls a tomb and rebuilt there. It's an image that's hard to conjure in his mind: the Continent is not forgiving, but a lack of those living is not one of its problems.
He doesn't hide the question in his gaze, but he leaves them unasked. It isn't important, in the end. And not a story to pry out of someone he's spoken to for hardly an hour.
Instead, he considers. If she's never seen a wolf, he doubts she's seen the mountains or the snow. ] Then look for the bones past the gates.
no subject
He doesn't hide the question in his gaze, but he leaves them unasked. It isn't important, in the end. And not a story to pry out of someone he's spoken to for hardly an hour.
Instead, he considers. If she's never seen a wolf, he doubts she's seen the mountains or the snow. ] Then look for the bones past the gates.
[ The dead are universal. ]