Northstar Vale yeah, i know i never shoulda took you home

though it is hard for him to make out actual details of her, poet regards her as she returns his greeting and jumps right to the introductions. it makes sense, he supposes. but it's more straightforward than he's used to; like a cut-to-the-chase exchange at a sleepy bar.

moonshadow, she calls herself.

tryin' to make sense of direction in this fog, poet grins, and then lets out a low, sheepish noise; unsure that his humor was welcomed nor needed in this situation. i'm poet saint-forge, ma'am. and though he isn't sure she could make out the gesture, he tips his head in a gentlemanly greeting, like a cowboy tipping the brim of his hat.