Witch's Marsh please let me blaze

pray?

pray, pray, pray.

he tosses the word around a bit, trying to decide if it sounds familiar to him. kind of. pray, he parrots slowly. wo-words? he thinks that's the word he's looking for but again, as it has been most of his time speaking, he is uncertain. never had he ever thought he'd been wandering foreign lands and wishing he'd been more invested in diplomatic lessons. glacial gaze catches the bob of her head to communicate non-verbally that she understands him.

sakhmet.

now there was a name — a word! — he's never heard before; and it rolls off of her tongue in a way the sounds of his name do not. to him, it is as exotic as she is. sah-k-met? sak-met? he tries, feeling his tongue used to heavier sounds butchering her name. sakh? you? he motions to her with a small gesture of his muzzle then, wanting to be sure that she has offered him her name in return.