Phoenix Maplewood if everything is honey, & i am what i eat...

Aure’s silvered gaze waned open, meekly, to see the smile and that relieved expression on the champion’s face. For a moment, when as her body uncurled from her abashment, her heartbeat fell quiet as she felt the sudden weightlessness of her marred maw. For a moment, it seemed as if she was struck with wonder and wouldn’t reply at all. Then, in gullible, girlish gallant:

”Ești uimitor, minunat, un sfânt, un adevărat campion! Mulțumesc mult! Cum pot să vă mulțumesc vreodată?“ And even as she began to flurry about him, like an insignificant little frost-fae spinning through winter, her foreign gratitude didn’t cease once. ”E ca și cum ai fi spulberat și tu ai făcut-o! Ai făcut! A fost minunat, mă simt atât de eliberat, de ce nu m-am gândit la asta mai devreme?“

All the while she flit about him, coltish legs erratic and dancing over welts of sap upon the winter terrain. It was only after she was breathless from babbling that Aure drew herself up before him again; her mortification would arrive later, but she was able to ruffle out a sprightly ”Thank you!” before she broke out in fidgets again. ”I-I owe you a life debt, yes? I am Aure.”