Firestone Hot Springs and our throats were bare for god

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The (ex)legionnaire peeks an candescent, ardent red eye open at the sound of approach. A pale sylph appears through the steam as if little more than a lovely mirage. For a brief moment, he thinks that she is but her form appears corporeal as she moves closer diminishing the distance between herself and the pool he relaxes in. An old habit disallows him from pretending like she is not there — too many years of militaristic habits drilled into his head as both a growing boy and a training hersveit; however, he does not rise from his pool, does not regard her with hostility confident that she is hardly aware of his presence. At first. The dull ache in his hind leg has faded, soothed by the warmth of the water and his tendency to favor his right leg habitually (though he regularly forces the issue with his left leg lest the muscle begins to degrade due to disuse) but he doubts very much he will be able to rise and strike with the swiftness of a cobra as he once had. His days of fighting as a young man — and a robust man are long over. He is healthy but the limp presents complications and he knows it is a disadvantage with the uncertainty of the fact that knowledge beats brute force and youth. Whether she has brute force or not is unknown to Valtamr but she certainly has youth.

Ears perk and cup forth atop his skull as she notices him and her demeanor subtly shifts to once much more cautious but she does not flee. Instead, to his immense curiosity, she takes a few steps deeper into the pool, watching him he notes as he watches her. He does not move. Not to chase her out and not to depart himself. He is not opposed to sharing as long as she isn’t. “Hello,” He offers her in way of greeting.

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