Blackfoot Forest We are made of all those who have built and broken us.

Even as the tension melts from her thin frame, not unlike the meltwater seen in spring time that had swelled the banks of her forest's stream, some of the intensity has fled the nanuk's massive form. The angakkuq seems to perk curiously under his olive eyes, watching with intrigue as his defenses fall. It's been some time since the wild girl was approached with kindness and from behind her mask she seems perplexed. 

"Sia'," she repeats, her control of language lacking from the isolation she's taken up since leaving the north. Not only is her syntax underdeveloped but so too are her manners, for the spearwife doesn't take notice if he dislikes the nickname. With the bear's relaxation has come her own, she finds her feet though her head seems unable to fully raise nor do her eyes steadily find Siarut. 

Tupilaq makes no move to approach, at least beyond turning in the kind male's direction, for the thought of doing so causes her heart to flutter like a frightened bird within its cage. She senses a lowering of walls and tries with care to piece together her thoughts. "Where are you going?" 

The tundrian doesn't bother asking where he's from, that is clear to her. Indeed, there's nowhere in the past for her to speak of. Only what's ahead is important now.