Nova Peak If you must mourn, my love, mourn with the moon and the stars up above

"my garden an't need poop flowers, so pfpfffft!" she pinched her eyes shut and blew a spittling raspberry, scrunching her brows together. she didn't know what an urchin was, thoough, so she folded her cards and just planted herself on her rear.
wylla sat across from her like they were in a business meeting, her own haunches flumping in the muck with what sounded like flatulence letting loose from her behind. phaedra suppressed a wheeze of laughter, catching it in her cheeks. "ooooooo you farded, didn' you?" she teased, plume beating a tattoo against the earth. 
she shed her childish idiosyncrasies when wylla imparted that she wanted to learn some of her father tongue, expressing her rationale—that this was a surprise for papa. a conspiratorial smile begged for use of her lips.
hope in herself was a worm-eaten drupe, so the emphasis on wylla hoping for her daughter's help made the girl dimple. she considered—only in a pithy thought, of course—using this as means of finessing some higher privileges for herself ...
ultimately, phaedra was just heartened to feel useful, when all she had felt for months was like a burden.
"ja! that means yes," she said. mahler's dearth of presence in her formative months had made her command over his tongue the middling sort, but with the treasury of words she did know, phaedra could figure most of it out herself so long as it didn't get too complicated. 
"wha'ya wanna learn?"