Firestone Hot Springs and our throats were bare for god

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The water stills as she is settled and as his muscles relax once more to a stillness that represents the stone she has (unknowingly to him) first mistaken him as. It is only the movement of his ardent gaze that keeps him from becoming a grizzled statue. It remains fixated upon her, less out of caution now and more for politeness as she provides him with a response that is partially specific and partially vague. Valtamr is a foreigner in these lands and knows not what lies to the west of the hot springs. The neutral territories blur together to him — it is only the packs that remain flagged in his memory but this is only so he can use aversion tactics. He does not feel the need to push himself into making any sort of hasty decision and does not currently actively seek any pack out. Not that he harbors any knowledge of them anyway beyond their existence — and that is only the two he actively avoided as he made his way here. “Mhm,” He agrees in a low, throaty hum that concurs to her words. The damp is humid and heavy, and the smell is unfavorable but the pools are worth all of those things. “I’m Valtamr,” He offers her his name realizing that he has yet to do it. Perhaps their whole conversation could have gone without it but he feels the impulse to offer it regardless. “Val for short, if you prefer.” The small grin he offers the lovely stranger holds a wisp of his cheeky nature beneath the enforcer, militaristic exterior.

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