Moonspear you can only remember what you want to forget

The flowers did tremble - and again Tryphon was struck by the strangeness of the decoration, the fluid-like quality of the red blossoms, but he did not stare this time; she placed them down and then spoke, and he was distracted by her voice. He was too intent on investigating the woman to worry about the eerie flowers, and so they became a forgotten pool of red upon the soil. She was radiant as the sun touched upon her, and then as she slid over to the shadows and perched with him among them, became a soft gray - beautiful too, in her way. Tryphon decided he much preferred the company of the living over any inanimate plant.

Who are you? She inevitably asked. He licked his lips and said, A newcomer, before realizing that he sounded evasive - and as she was being so cordial, it was wrong of him to side-step the question. He hadn't meant to; but the boy had been struck with an irregular feeling of indecision upon hearing her question. It wasn't the first time he's had to divulge his name, but he was in a new place now - a new person. His name was thoroughly Greek, rooted to the unending sea and Her mysteries; but Tryphon himself was not. His name no longer fit - if it ever did.

I mean, I'm... I'm called Tryphon, if he could blush, he would have. Instead his ears fanned either side of his head awkwardly and he looked to his paws; to the soil beneath them (rather than sand), and listened to the disquiet of the mountain. When he looked up he looked to her, his pale eyes seeking her face, and he asked: Yourself?