Witch's Marsh please let me blaze

thru the backdrop noises of the unquiet marsh, gleipnir's ear twitches at the hitch in her breath and the way she is quick to put back the distance she had crossed between them. the shake of her head is enough to tell him what he sought to know: that no, he was not this peyrite. but then...who was? who? it buzzes around and around in his head like the serpent eating its own tail. who! he blurts, suddenly, as the word surfaces to the forefront of his mind. the word that has previously eluded him. who peyrite?

a brief wave of satisfaction washes over him, but her uncertainty is interpreted to the northerner as fear. for good reason, he would admit. it is not a lie to say he enjoys being feared ...but she is a child and though he might be a kin slayer he will not slay a child. especially not one that hasn't even done anything to him then, perhaps, call him peyrite. but he doesn't perceive that as a slight just a mix-up.

i... he has heard her say it many times now. over and over. i. her? i. him? i gleipnir. again, uncertainty takes root in his voice as he tries to puzzle it out. it didn't sound quite right to him, despite how little of the common tongue he knows ( or rather, cared to remember ).