Silvertip Mountain don't forget from whence you came

:3

Phocion's hopeful thoughts are true: Poet has lingered close since running into the priest, at a distance but close enough to keep track of their movements. She feels oddly skittish, trailing their periphery, but has not been up to fully emershing with them yet. Mostly she meditates, occasionally dipping into prayer, feeling all the more a heretic (and wondering what Phocion will expect from her and her blasphemer's tongue when she cannot truly offer devotion). 

When his call rings out for her, she rises to meet it automatically. She goes to them, to him, her steps light and her ears drawn back slightly, embarrassed to be caught at their shadow. But if Phocion knew she was close (and she assumes he did) and chose to give her space, well. It makes her all the more appreciative of the charismatic man. 

Poet greets him first with a soft bark, then looks to Cortland and nods, a smile curving her lips. For now she holds her tongue, waiting for Phocion to surely speak: there must be a reason he's chosen to call her to his side now.