Rishima seems to enjoy my presence, which brings a thin smile to my lips, a return to her warm one. Our shoulders brush and the touch quivers down me like a strange thing. I do not often touch. I stay distant from everyone. No no, saying it like that insists I do it on purpose, likely as a defense mechanism to keep myself safe by never letting anyone in. That's believable, and perhaps even a bit true, I'm certainly not soft. Yet it's inaccurate to say it that way.

Everyone keeps me at a distance.

It's a pity the cause isn't some foul odor. A bath would be simple solution in that case. It's a much more difficult matter when you have no friends because of who you are, but you can at least, change yourself. We are changing every moment in every experience already, whether we like it or not. When the issue then is about what you are, well then you're fucked.

I'm a mute, and that I cannot change.
That simple word hangs on me like some forbidden disease and everyone is afraid of catching it. It labels me, defines me, alienates me in ways that you could not know. I am like a dumb woodland creature, watching and doing intricate mating dances that amuse and delight (my artwork), but you do not try to speak to the doe, or the bird, or the squirrel that entertains you in the woods. It cannot talk back, so what's the point?

I am pulled from my inner turmoil by the exchange of politics in front of me. My head shakes, senses snapping back to clarity. I must focus, it is my duty to know and I take pleasure in learning, I've found. Rishima speaks with a bold authority, but it is not a surprise to me. I know very little about her truthfully, so I do not recognize the struggle it is for her to take up the crown in Mirage's absence when it's weight is something she so detests. To me it is natural and expected that she would.

The Jackal in front of us is piqued by this shift in command, but he is good at hiding his thoughts and intentions, if but for a passing gleam in his eye. I grow more interested in him, too accustomed to those that wear themselves freely on their withers it's much more intriguing to find someone that plays the game of thrones discreetly. He is young though (like me), and he hasn't quite mastered the talents of being faceless, try as he might. There is an edge to his words that suggests something more than what they tell our ears. I subconsciously lean forward, as if being closer might enable to me to decipher better, but he has finished speaking and awkwardly I shuffle a step back beside Rishima.

I do not glance at her, my opinion of this affair isn't necessary and I have no extra information on the Foothills to provide - I've been too focused on this herd and the Basin to pay mind to anything else. So I watch, and wait, curiosity written in the tilt of my head.