Mount Everfall storm child made of wild and flame

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It would seem, Thyri thought with a hint of irony that, she had a tendency to draw titans — though it is not uncommon for her to be the smallest one in the area. She is female, for starters, and neither of her parents were colossal. Gavriel was of an average medium while Gyda was lithe, petite. Thyri takes after the latter but she knows that stature is just that: stature and that it could easily be changed by presentation. The mummer queen’s steps halt as she takes in the masked man, a dark earthen hue with a black mask that accents his ruby gaze. The sylph does not ensconce her light caramel gaze as inspects him from afar, noting his unkept appearance with a rise of disdain; his fur is clumped invisible mats and filthy. As a creature who takes her appearance to be important — if not because it will be a weapon of her trade — she cannot imagine what sort of despondent state she would ever have to be in to allow herself to end up so neglected.

He stares at her, unmoving, except for his tail which flicks behind him, Thyri watches. She does not close the distance between them but she lifts her muzzle slightly to draw in his scent with a flare of her black, leathery nostrils. He smells lone. She wonders what Grievous might think of him but does not linger upon that contemplation for long. Perhaps it would not matter but perhaps it would. Only time and the tide of this meeting would tell, she thinks. “Why do you stare so adamantly, Aðkomumaður?” The mummer is not uncomfortable as she asks her inquiry aloud, instead there is a coquettish cant of her head and simper tugging at the edges of her lips that is beguiling.

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