Bearclaw Valley and he sings to me real low

the black wraith did not miss the stiffening of muscles; briefly across her helmed face, there flitted something akin to distrust. thorn knew that emotion well, and thumbed around its meaning with a frown troubling his expression.

her gruff query broke his musings, and his viper-yellow eyes lifted up to study her features once more, avoiding the strike of her sharp cyan eyes. "thorn eyjolfur." his tone lacked any sort of coldness, though the troubled countenance persisted. "of diaspora. you look as if you could be a relative.. so, who are you..?" his gaze flitted over the black mask that sundered her impressive features -- if she was of his blood, she was a compelling representative of it. "and what was that look for?"