Hideaway Strath he walks the field at night

When he asked about her name, as those not born in the Draught were prone to do, Omen could only shrug. Her sheepish didn't come so much from her name but how others reacted when first introduced. It made her feel as if something was wrong with her— an unfortunately intended consequence brought on by the council of her naming ceremony. She couldn't find her voice to answer him at first. She wasn't typically inclined to explain, but for some reason she wanted him to understand; as if she thought not doing so would tarnish her to him.

Soft ears drew forward as he continued. He gave her the word Talvella and told her how important it was to him— how he wasn't yet ready to wear it— and she tucked the name away with the jealous fervor of a dragon. She, who believed in things unseen and concepts like fate, could not imagine that he had given her the translation of Wintersbane in his mother's tongue just for it to be shared with everyone else. She was too self-important, too greedy and needy, to believe that name had been meant for anyone to utter but her...

Omen swallowed thickly. "To me, it's not about what I like to be called," she answered after a while, and it was all she seemed willing to expose, with her mien crestfallen. Her gaze followed a detached greenleaf as it tumbled in light skips near the young warrior's broad paws. "My mother told me," Omen began to relent, after releasing a breath and relaxing the tense set of her shoulders, "that my name came out of spite from bigots who didn't understand the words, and that it didn't have to mean something bad if I didn't want to."