Sawtooth Spire i do not love the bright sword for its sharpness

praimfaya does not expect to be pounced upon. at first, all of her instincts kick in and she pushes herself to her paws, hackles bristled and upper lip curled back from her teeth as she spins to face the guilty. frostbound gaze touch upon the boy and for a second she blinks, owlishly, confused; mistaking him for thade. but no. he couldn't be. he smelled too much like sagtannet and thade, even if by some miracle he had returned, would smell too much like the outside world. her hackles smooth back down to along her spine, surveying the boy as her posture shifts to one that is more relaxed: for he is still a kid. what's your name, goufa? she asks him, and then offers a, that was a good pounce.