Dragoncrest Cliffs i beg your parsley

The moment Coelacanth lays eyes on the dragonwolf, she is struck by an intense spur of recognition. I know you. I know you! The details are still murky, though, and for a few tense moments her only reaction is to submit to the larger, older female’s will. Her slim jaws loosen and the rabbit falls to the chilled earth; she dances nimbly away a pace or two and then holds her ground respectfully, keeping her flank to the pack wolf and her ears tucked against her skull. It is only when the woman speaks, a fierce, “Why are you here,” not a question but a command, that she remembers anything at all. It’s always been easy for the sheepdog to hang onto voices and phrases, and the gray-eyed warrior woman’s richly accented timbre is utterly unique — unlike any other. Now Seelie remembers there was another female, too, but trauma and time have blurred her out. Obediently, she repeats what she remembers, essentially butchering the dragoness’ native tongue with an apologetic air:

“Heda — weremkom — sha…Heda?” The words barely break frost from the sheepdog’s lips, but the quizzical tilt of her head adds a question mark to her clumsy parroting. Maybe Heda is the giant wolf’s name? Seelie doesn’t know, but she hastens to introduce herself, one fluid sentence after the other. She gets her rank wrong, but perhaps she can be forgiven; she’s kind of like one of those dolls where you pull the string and they have a limited number of phrases they can say. “Coelacanth Corten — Undersea, across water,” she points in the island’s general direction, nose and tail jutting out straight and true as one feathered forelimb tucks against her sloping ribcage, then turns back to Antumbra. “Aralez — allmother. First…first female.”

What was that next part, again?

“Greet gift,” she remembers, her tail whisking shyly. “For peace. Peace be.”