Whitebark Stream i'm sayin' goodbye, mom

There was someone nearby.
 
He could smell her, on the wind, the breeze. She was the smell of something cold, and the smell of something far older, solid and sturdy, the smell of rock and stone. Mingled in her scent were others, less defined but still muddling.
 
Daighre ignored her.
 
Even when he saw—rather than heard—her, he still paid her little to no mind. He wasn’t impressed by what he saw, anyway.
 
Small. Grey. Young.
 
His mind said annoying.
 
He kept walking, content with a perfectly good nonexistent icebreaker in a nonexistent conversation for a nonexistent relationship.