Otatso Wetlands Moonjock

Obscured by the dredged vegetation was a young man who promptly dismissed the wayward vines with a hasty swat. Tuwawi couldn't help but smile, lightheartedly amused by the youth's fervent brushing. He appeared young, perhaps a season or two older than the rugged Týr, with large, glassy baby blue eyes and a slight, but gaunt, figure. "Oh?" the ember hummed, surprised that this buck seemed to know where he was headed... or perhaps his travels held the sentiments of those who wander are not always lost.

"No, not me," she replied with an open expression, "I know this valley quite well. There's a pack to the South," she gestured with her head towards the creek, "called Swiftcurrent... I lived with them for many months." Tuwawi's tone became soft at the sudden realization that she had spoken in past tense. The sands in her hourglass were rapidly falling and soon, the Sveijarns would be saying their last goodbyes. "My name's Tuwawi. What's yours?" she asked in her distinctive low, crooning voice.