Isleña continued on her quest with great focus and intent. She could never forgive herself if she faltered in her duties and missed the trail of her family in need! There was no way that Isleña would be the cause of the Luk’s downfall, not if she could help it. So onward she marched, finding purpose (and a reason to live) in her march.
It wasn’t long until she encountered another. That wasn’t what surprised her — no, it was the fact that she recognized him! It took only a moment before Isleña recognized him as the silvered man from the river; the one who failed in his duties to protect his meal. At least, that was how the banshee saw things; she had been able to steal it, had she not?
Standing tall, Isleña allowed a playful smirk to settle over her features. They were past introductions by now, so why take things so seriously? “Mənim üçün başqa quş varmı?” she barked at him smarmily, wondering if he would now treat her with disdain — but he hadn’t before, when she truly deserved it, so she doubted the handsome male would start now.
It was pleasantly how Isleña had expected, but that did not mean it was boring. Isleña did not live a boring existence, but rather imbued her every interaction with a vivacious, lively energy that sometimes challenged convention. The banshee loved the interesting dynamic that existed between the two of them, lived for this kind of thing really, and was almost glad that she hadn’t been allowed to abscond with the man’s grouse completely. Then, his handsomeness and his demeanor would have been quite a waste! Meeting him, and subsequently running into him once more, had been well-worth that night’s empty belly.
The man moved past her and, though he had proffered her company with the cant of his muzzle, Isleña spun on her heels and darted after him with a smirk and an “Ay!”
Isleña pulled up alongside the man, trotting in step with he, appreciating how he distracted her mind from her infinite troubles for at least a moment. She hadn’t had a good sleep in days, but perhaps she could instead restore herself through a good conversation — or, at least, as good of a conversation that a girl who only spoke a foreign language could have. With her chocolate visage turned towards the much taller man, Isleña questioned “Where go?” and left him to fill in the details. He did seem like he was uncharacteristically in a hurry, and she didn't exactly want him to be.
He didn’t stop moving, so Isleña worked to keep up her pace. She didn’t have anywhere to be, hell, so she allowed herself to be easily guided. She glanced up at him, not watching her step [this seemed to be a common thing when in the presence of this man] but, gods be good, she didn’t trip time. Instead, she focused on how he spoke, the drawl of his tongue, and the dangerous lilt of his words. She nodded as if she understood.
“Mon-tan,” she repeated with a thick tongue. “Mah-ler,” she practiced, remarking at the similar sounds of the word. One of those was his name, she knew, but she didn’t really know which. “For me, Islena.”
She liked the way he said her name, with his accent giving it a very yummy inflection. Isleña allowed herself to revel in the sound, saying nothing, as he practice her moniker and gave her the attention she so missed from her Luk family. Isleña! Isleña! they all had once said. Now there was no one to speak her name, and it felt good for it to finally happen.
Then, simple, easy words — for that, she was appreciative. The girl opened her mouth and laughed, a cheerful sound. She knew what this was; it was a game! Her seafoam-hued eyes danced as turned her head to fully look a him. Then she turned forward, watching the path to god-knows-where disappear beneath their feet, and muttered “ummm…”
“Montans, Mahler,” she repeated, adding on the only other 2 syllable m-word that she knew: “Mother,” she tacked on slyly, not knowing what a silly addition that really was. Watch him top that!
Mahler, like so many others, took it upon himself to teach her words in the common tongue. Despite its necessity, and its endlessness, the topic of conversation had become somewhat trite for the banshee. As much as she wanted to speak fluently with all of the others she met in these strange lands, Isleña was so tired of learning words — and then relearning them, when she inevitably forgot the word — and it exhausted her mind and body when everything in the world was always a lesson.
But beggars could not be choosers, so like the dutiful student she was, she grinned and repeated the words and attempted to commit it to memory. “Burds,” she said thickly, the word sitting firm and bulky upon her tongue. The man himself had an accent nearly as strange as her own, and from the modulations of the second word he spoke, Isleña strong suspected that was the same word in his own lexicon. Figuring this was all the permission she needed to do the same, the girl nodded and said with a definitive tilt of her chin “Quşlar.” Then, hoping to impress him once more [she found that she did love to please him], she posed the question “Do you like… burds?” to him and raised an eyebrow expectantly.