The first time Rhodri heard a bard talking about the endless greenery of the Deep Jungle on Maharagwe, his first though had been, ‘Alright, sure, pull one of the other ones.’
It was one of his Mum’s less colorful phrases, but one of his favorites, learned on the days when he could accompany her to the smithy; hear her back-and-forth with the blacksmiths, the leather-workers, and their clients; and listen to their voices rising and falling like hammers, rough and loud and clangorous.
He glanced up at her then, still a cub sitting by her paws, searching for the same skepticism, but not too surprised to find it missing. Mum — Marne — had smiles and laughs that came easy. Even when something was wrong. His tufted ears pinned back, remembering a visitor to their home, words said about the gods, and Mum’s paw gentle on his face when he’d been baring his teeth. “A drunkard’s joke, Rhodri. Not a true word in’t. Laugh, my boy, and let it go.”
If he wanted the truth, Mother was the safer
