Grouse Thicket A black fly in your chardonnay.

The woman was fairly plain, but in an appealing way. Average was not an apt descriptor for this woman although she seemed simple to some degree - composed, assured of herself. There was an endearing quality to the smooth manner with which she spoke, and Minerva finds herself wondering if they are a mother. It would not have surprised her at all if this woman had been chosen to bear a litter for her tribe. And when she spoke of a child — or some sort of youth in any regard — it warmed Minerva further towards this idea.

She could not help the brief smile that warmed the curves of her cheeks; she thought, how odd a name for a daughter, this Elfie, and never once considered an alternative. It bolstered Minerva's confidence and faith (within herself and gods alike) to hear of good fortune and stability in this space. Especially so for a sister - whether they were the same tribe or not.

My name is Wraen — the woman began. The siren briefly opened her mouth to introduce herself too, but then was caught by the curious statement that followed. A mother, perhaps a guardian (for Wraen seemed like a stalwart creature, like the Amazons), but the Matriarch of her tribe? It did not suit the image Minerva had hastily constructed in her mind of this woman. More importantly, if this was the ruler of the tribe why was she taking daughters out of the territory? Why not a priestess? Where were her consorts, her guards?

Minerva was silenced by her thoughts, quick though they were, and after a moment managed to say, I am Minerva. I am honored to meet you. As was customary for her people, she dipped her head low, sweeping for a bow until rising again. I am surprised - you, leading your tribe, being out here. Do you not have others to do the work? Perhaps it was wrong to be so presumptive, so forward, but she did not know how the world worked off of her island.