Moonspear you can only remember what you want to forget

The sunlight beamed from around him and likely turned Tryphon in to a shadow, but for the stranger, she was turned into burnished shades of gold; the white of her pelt held the color softly, but she looked warm and inviting, save for the blood-red of the petals hanging from her lips. Tryphon was struck by a morbid feeling - an ominous sensation that made him nervous - upon seeing the red petals bleeding from her lips; but he said nothing, focusing instead upon the rest of her. After a moment of observation he cottoned on to how strange he must seem, standing there with not a word, transfixed as he was.

Er -- sorry, he murmured, ducked, and moved to intercept some shade. He kept his ears twisted to listen to her, but averted his gaze shyly, for he was still new to the lands and she seemed comfortable enough to be picking flowers, which could only mean she was an established member of the mountain family.

Once he'd crossed through some graying shadows he felt comfortable enough to sit, and addressed her properly: I didn't mean to startle you. Or weird her out. Or stare. He was curious all the same though, and couldn't help it - she was the first friendly face he'd encountered since his arrival, and he was still gathering his bearings. Do you -- um, I mean, are those your flowers? Dummy, of course they were. She was holding them so carefully - it must have taken a while to gather them.