She did not appear timid; without a word, she had immediately given herself over to a strange sort of ritual. Intrigued, the black-hooded samurai leaned in, examining the creation fashioned by the woman in the brown coat. Paw prints in the sand—several, aligned in a deliberate pattern. What could she possibly mean?

Shinjou was no artist; his mind was shaped for war, for the discipline of combat. When it came to riddles, he was woefully inept.

He sat down, perplexed, his ears twitching uncertainly, unsure of how to hold themselves atop his head.

うむ。実に美しい he murmured, tongue caught between his fangs, his lip curled more from frustration than annoyance. 足跡…　お前は足跡だ。島も…足跡がある he attempted to interpret, resigned, before the meaning finally began to dawn. He repeated, softer this time, 島も…足跡がある

Then, louder, the words burst from him: 島も…足跡がある

The samurai stood abruptly and stepped closer to the enigmatic little woman.

Women and men on this island what are they? Are they savages? Do they have culture? What the culture on the island? Now that she held information he deemed valuable, he made the effort to speak in the common tongue, hoping thus to draw out more detail—if, that is, she would deign to answer him more clearly.