Qeya River "if only, if only," the woodpecker sighs

His reasoning is not farfetched, she supposed—she hadn’t much thought of him since their time together—and so she shrugs one shoulder. She’d warned him from getting too close and, so far, he’d taken the advice. The river isn’t terribly close but any more so and she might be suspicious, but his proximity has struck something in her that pulls her close a few feet. Her posture remains, but her features fall stoic as he ultimately introduces himself.

“Heda Thuringwethil,” she tells him, “of Sleeping Dragon.”

She glances up the ridge, where she can only see the tip of her mountain, but nonetheless he knows where it is.

“Did your leaders tell you of our history?” she questions then with a tilt of her head, finally able to put a name to the wolves on the ravine. Thuringwethil has made sure her own wolves knew to avoid the marsh and above after once driving them away for being too close, that she also expects the same. His closeness to her mountain, however, makes her believe that he might not know—or he’s a little too daring for his own good.