Lake Rodney We don't like when visitors come

From her mouth did not a single sound escape, ears upright and attention honed in on the male before her. As his tale was spun and his reason shared, she listened just as eagerly as a child might towards her mother’s bedtime utterances, finding the past to be just as important as the present and future alike. And as his voice slowed to a stop, she felt a shy smile attempting to slip into her expression, resulting in the discreet upturning of the corners of her lips. “I can appreciate your intentions,” stated the girl, her voice having nearly lost its way within her throat. Although her nerves had since begun to settle gradually, the point at which they would be shed in full had yet to arrive. “I think it’s—it is—nice,” added the lamb. “Your brothers and you must be very kindhearted.” It sounded to her as if they were the same as those within her family—the ones that lived so terribly far away, whose lives and choices had been shared with her through the tellings of her mother’s memories. It was reassuring, truly, and led her to believe that the balance and peace her mother sought to maintain actually existed.

The skill which could be contributed was useful, it seemed, a statement that made the flesh beneath her ravenesque coat heat up considerably; such words were ones that she could not yet feel comfortable with when hearing them exit the mouths of males. Twisting her thoughts and setting her eagerness loose in another direction were the results of her youthful peculiarities, the young dragoness having quickly found herself set on becoming a wonderful Botanist. “I will focus on botany,” she decided aloud, eyes of powder seeking some sign of approval within his gaze. “My mother is a Medic. I should not follow so closely in her steps that I become her shadow.” With that, her decision was finalised. Kaori loved her mother, that she would never deny, but to become a perfect replica of the woman was something that she could neither do nor wanted to try.

At last, the boy was given a name: Rannoch. It was interesting, the syllables falling together in a way that she had never before heard—which, she noticed, seemed to happen each and every time she met someone outside of her family. Perhaps, she wondered, they often felt the same about her own moniker, but never would she be able to bring herself to ask. Instead, she said, “It’s nice to meet you, too, Rannoch.” A pleasure, she knew, that she was lucky to have experienced.