The echo of cloven hooves against the green bamboo behind me is answered, surprisingly, by a male voice.

My attention pivots to him swiftly, ears lifted, lion’s tail curving upwards and about my body in an almost defensive curl (as it the useless tassel could do more than get in the way); I don’t really care for being snuck up on, and its evident in the frown that deepens on my face as my head turns to let my aureate gaze size up the male that speaks.  It’s not his fault that I didn’t hear him over the sound of my violence against vegetation or the fluttering noise of my nerves, but whatever.  He’s gonna get glared at for the time being regardless, the forward angle of my ears dropping back to the slight backward tilt of being perturbed – the only thing keeping my usual snotty attitude at bay being an irksome wonder as to why he seems so curiously familiar, but entirely strange.

So distracted with this wonder and the rushing course of aggravation at having been startled, I don’t even notice his companion until he gives her a name – so I glance up, because Erakro is obviously not riding his back as so many creatures seem to do, but there’s nothing overhead, perched on the misaligned caps of the bamboo encircling us.  The last place I decide to look, of course, is where she is – a very little thing of some feline lineage, tawny colored, her paws and head too big for the oddly proportioned parts of her predatory body.  I know from Kyst, however, that the gangly oddness of young cats shouldn’t be mistaken as anything other than youth – and Erakro is almost as big as mother’s griffon already, barely grown (it makes my thoughts try to trail off on a path of wonder as to how very large she will be when she’s done).  

Oddly, the man also introduces what seems to be his dagger, which makes my eyebrows rise up ever so slightly, my gaze returning to his face from the cub, at his hooves.

That’s a different sort of thing to introduce, but to each his own, I suppose.

"I guess I wouldn’t mind it," I answer, untruthfully, the rich tenor of my voice tethered to a slight gruffness, especially in my minor annoyance at them – I’d really like it, mostly because it’s hard to imagine shadow wolves while using your mind for conversation, but there is something so wimpy about asking for companionship to me, "I’m Rikyn."

I look again at his dagger, unable to keep from wondering why someone would name a knife unless it did something more than stab things from time to time.  Besides, I’ve heard enough of enchanted objects in stories gleaned from elders, and even seen a few – like the little daggers the Angry Snowflake had used against me.  My own father made machines that lived.  It was easy to assume that this “Krukero” was fancier than it let on.

"Does it do anything?" I ask, not caring if its rude to ask such direct questions about others belongings, or if maybe he’d rather not share the enchantment it holds – an advantage I understand entirely, the sort to withhold plenty of things from plenty of people for the greater purpose of serving myself.

[ OOC: It's okay!  I have lots of typos and I occasionally swap out words for totally wrong but related ones so I know the struggle of finger cooperation. xD ]