Firestone Hot Springs and our throats were bare for god

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Valtamr tucks her name away as she offers it in return. Aria January. Last names had never been very important to the caravan and until he rose from legionnaire to king had he even been given one. þyrnirstjórn — thorn ruler. It is lengthy and though it will flow easily off of his tongue, used as it was to making those sounds he does not bother offering it to her. He does not doubt that it will mean little to nothing to her and thus he sees no use in it; besides, he thinks, it is more decoration than anything that defines him. “I don’t know,” Valtamr replies honestly to her question with a roll of his shoulders in a shrug. He is a vagabond and he has no destination though this is less because of his need to strategize and plan and more because he is a foreigner to these lands and is not sure where to look, or even what he is looking for. He didn’t know enough about these Wilds to be able to have a destination in his mind. “I don’t have a destination.” Valtamr concludes, salmon pink tongue drawing across his jowls. “What about you Miss Aria,” He is so used to titles, to formalities and pleasantries that “miss” slips off of his tongue like melted butter and wholly of the subconscious. He has not realized he even said it at all as he continues on with “where are you headed?” She does not have to tell him, of course but he returns the question out of curiosity and courtesy. He is open with her but he does not expect her to hold to the same level of honesty for they are still strangers and he understands any caution she may harbor for him.

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