Firestone Hot Springs this will never end

The emotions that crossed her face was quick and fleeting, her eyes fleeing from him like a dove startled from the brush at his presence. There was a flicker of something -- disappointment? -- at the action but the dove returned to surprise him, meeting his gaze and reforming his view of her into something else, something other than a dove. A doe, perhaps; flighty, but still strong in someways. Enticing, in others. Delicate, with a spark of something deep within; a smolder that could grow into a flame, if kindled and cared for.

Arlette.

Stjörnuáti, He would answer in reply, still observing the mark of her past upon her face. It was not ugly, not to him. Scars were something revered in his homelands, the mark that you bested your obstacles and lived on to meet another day. Even the most painful scars were something to be proud of. What had he learned back then, as a boy? What had he learned when the lessons of life were painful and harsh?

They do not have to, He stated in careful, common tongue. While he had a better grasp on the language than his brother did, some of its finer details eluded him. A thrumming, thoughtful sound left him, canting his head in a boyish gesture that no longer suited him well. Heiðra minningu látinna með því að lifa því lífi sem þau gátu ekki. He paused, thinking hard, trying to word it in a way she understood, unless she understood him.

Ah... Make the dead... proudful by living.

He was trying.