Stavanger Bay archaic

 as she speaks he takes the time to study her features - delicately crafted as if she is woven from the sand herself, a figure made of glass. "ah," samothes says, eyes flicking briefly to the corpse as the ravens move in closer. the birds hold more interest to him than the long-dead creature - he's always liked the fickle-hearted ravens, which are cleverer than most of their kind.

 samothes' gaze returns to the fey as she speaks again. it is a point of view he's rarely considered, but she's right: someone must have mourned this corpse, once. he looks back at it, re-evaluating - he catches the still-clinging patches of black fur, stark against it's bones. it reminds him of something.

he doesn't say anything for a moment, only hums softly in response. "it's kind of you," the scholar finally allows, though he still hesitates at the need for such rites. he is not a particularly superstitious creature. "i am samothes - samothes messeda," he introduces after a moment, interested in finding out more about her and not the corpse. his surname he drops without thinking - here in this new land it holds no weight, but habit forces it on his tongue anyway. ah, well - there's still pride in it, even if it serves mostly as decoration these days.