Iskandor was still just a pup, but even now, his paws were nimble and precise as he fiddled with the dreamcatcher, a little treasure he’d found tucked away in a hidden corner. Whose it was, he didn’t know — yet he intended to put it back only once his curiosity about its purpose and ‘magic’ was satisfied. The tiny beads and feathers seemed alive in his grasp, shifting softly as he traced each string with wonder. He had read tales about the dreamcatcher, of how it caught bad dreams and let only the good ones pass through. Iskandor's mismatched blue eyes glimmered as he imagined what kind of dreams it would protect him from, what stories it might have already kept safe for others. It was such an odd trinket, simple yet layered in meaning he couldn't quite reach. What other strange relics might be hidden, and who decided their purposes? The questions swirled restlessly, weaving themselves into his young mind like threads, and he felt his chest tighten, almost painfully, with the need to know.
A distant howl echoed through the Col, carrying the weight of purpose. It was Wylan, summoning him and his siblings to a training session. Iskandor's ears perked up, and with one last, almost reverent look at the dreamcatcher, he tucked it away carefully before bounding toward the sound, his paws light and swift as he made his way up the slope.
Arriving at the mouth of the cavern, Iskandor slowed his steps, his gaze inquisitive but brimming with intensity. “Wylan!” he called with a youthful brightness, his boyish voice cheerful but somehow quiet all the same. “I’m here!” His eyes sparkled with excitement as he looked up, standing as tall as his young legs would allow, determined to be seen as someone eager and worthy of the lessons to come.
"Speech"
