Is It Edible?

He is not silent, but still there is a quiet strength to even his countenance, and despite the injuries that have wracked his body, he stands with a confidence that nearly emanates from every fiber of his being. She meets his gaze with one of her own, smoldering embers meeting the toxic acid, and then...with a youthful innocence that perhaps eases his stance only slightly, she questions him. He snorts, maw peeling back as his muzzle wrinkles but not in a snarl, rather it is a sneer of distaste as if the taste and smell of soot and ash remains on his tongue. "I know not what monster is made of fire but fire in itself is a beast and one that should not be trifled with." The accent he speaks with--sharp and strong, a harsh rumble that makes the sound of his already-baritone voice sound perhaps more unapproachable than it should be. The tapir runs off, and he glances after the pig-thing with disdain.

Aerndis. A name he has not heard before, nor did he ever think he would. "....Potemos." Whether his name was Ares, Svarog, Helios-- he is a man that has been reborn from the ashes again, though there is one name that will forever remain the same. "Helios." will work for now, in this land. He wonders if he would be traced.

"Hunt smart, not hard." Perhaps his common is lacking, for he seems to speak in phrases and tones that are short, sharp, halting. Still, he turns on his heels and with his stiffened gait, begins making his way to the nearby river, for fishing is always the first that a youth should learn. When all else fails and the migratory prey has left the world barren, breaking the ice to find the fish is a life-saver, but catching it requires a practiced skill.



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"The Rubble Of Our Sins"