Totoka River Hold my hand, it's a long way down

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A flare of the sylph’s nostrils is given as she drinks in his scent though it tells her what it has already told her, what she already knows. Even so, his musk still carries the tangy brine of the sea and she thinks briefly of Sangeda with a small pang. She misses her parents but Sangeda was not her place. She did not fit in any more than she did in Sleeping Dragon. She struggles to adhere to culture. There is a distinct feeling of contained unity that it provides that perhaps the warrioress is not yet ready to embrace; or perhaps she does not just want to fit in. She wants to be individual without feeling like the outlier. Her mother was an outlier of Sangeda, just as she’d been of Sleeping Dragon but Gyda, somehow, managed to belong despite this, melding herself into a culture that is close but not her’s. Thyri applauds her mother’s talent for it but it is not a talent they share. He praises her and her gaze narrows further at him until she is almost squinting at him. Champagne ears flutter back against her skull though the action is not meant to be demure. “Take your sniff.” She commands of him. That was, after all, his whole purpose to goading her into drawing nearer, wasn’t it? “What is your name?” She inquires upon the next breath, figuring she has a right to at least a moniker if she is going to allow him to sniff at her. It is an exchange of information, after all, or so she thinks, anyway.

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