The Measure of Intelligence is the Ability to Change

Atticus was always carrying himself with diginity and today it didn't change anything for the masculine. Eyes of purple and sky blue scanned the area, nothing anyone had stated went unmissed from the mostly white brute, his black maw lowered to the ground, taking a breath of the scent of the grasses and spanish moss. He turned his attention towards the woman of creamas she made purchase upon one of the sturdy limbs of the willows. Lifting his skull and turning to everyone else. Before continuing on. They all were correct with their observations. "This area holds many promises. Prime hunting and good source of water, except when the weather has been so unbearable as it is now." Although the never ending heat didn't seem to bother the brute. The small one spoke about pottery from the soils and clay under their paws. "Making valuable items out of the clay would serve many purposes. And possibly align some alliances for those that are not able to get fine pottery made, or now how to craft themselves." Offering a nod of his two toned dial.

"Speech!"