Ocean's Breath Plateau little w[o/a]rri[e/o]r

“Skellige.”

There was recognition — a familiarity, perhaps an intimacy, in the way Deirdre’s tongue traced the syllables of the eldest Cairn’s name. Skellige was not a name one commonly came across, after all — but there was a warmth in the way the witch of the wood pronounced those guttural syllables that gave Szymon pause. He opened his eyes, their auriferous depths catching fire at her question, and nodded slowly. He locked gazes with the female, entranced by the countless shades of green he found himself sinking into — no matter how far down he fell, he would never run out of color or calm — and it was as though this odd communion pulled the words from his throat without his ever needing to reach for them. “I,” he murmured, ensorcelled, “a-a-a— l-l— alone.” He would find his brother — it heartened him more than he could eloquently express to believe Skellige was here — but he would do so without aid.

It was the Cairns’ way. Szymon would sink, or he would swim.

As long as she looked at him this way — as long as he was alone and adrift in the calm of those forest pools — he felt he could do the impossible. Helplessly, as though compelled to by the hypnotic quality of her presence, he let fall demands from his wooden and stammering tongue that no other had suffered at Szymon’s behest: “Y-Y-You — n-name?” he murmured, and with a quirk of his muzzle toward the woodland from whence the whitewater female had come, he asked a second thing. “W-W-Where?” he asked, a dual-sided query that could mean either her pack or her home. Any information was useful; it did not pay to be an ignorant wolf. Reassured by the knowledge that Skellige existed in this land, and that this female was somewhat familiar with him, Szymon forestalled the question that lay closest to his heart: how do you know my brother? If he could keep her talking, perhaps he could conjure up enough words to finally ask her.