Ocean's Breath Plateau nocturne in c-sharp minor, b. 49

The yearling thought about the eyes on a moose and furrowed his brow, trying to imagine if they were abnormally large or if she was painting even his memories. Smokestep didn't know a lot about his prey's eyes, and he hadn't the foggiest clue what Arabic was, but she was mesmerizing in her own right. He found himself growing a little lost in his own thoughts. Finally, blinking once or twice and finding her features again, he swallowed the dryness in his throat and nodded his head as if to signify that he understood what she was saying when he really did not.

“Thanks, lass. Some ain't fond o' the way I talk,” he said as she remarked on his voice and the accent that had warped his speech. “Ye know any more Arabic?” he then asked her, as if this would help him clarify if she was talking about a language or if she was talking about a culture that he had no comprehension of. He'd either make a fool of himself, or he'd have guessed well enough.