Greatwater Lake belongs to the sand

you're good!

Imaq couldn't have pinpointed a singular moment where she became aware of his presence. He was just there, when before he had not been, and the tiny huntress halted in her tracks instinctively -- stones clicking together softly underfoot as she stilled. 

It was her presumption that he would wish to speak to her, maybe even inquire after why she traveled alone as a man of the north might have. The golden merle waited patiently, floppy auds perking expectantly, as her small frame shifted subtly, habitually. 

The shaman greeted him with a small bob of her head, shoulders lowering and legs hunching vaguely in the body language of submission. Had she a tail, Imaq might've wagged it welcomingly. A hushed noise left her throat, something like the chirrup that left his own lips but reedier. 

" -," he greeted as her seaglass gaze flickered to him, taking him in in bits and pieces like a sort of puzzle. He was younger than she but towered over her by a head or two, as most lupines did, and was fashioned after rainy dawns cloaked in misty fogs. The spiritualist didn't recognize the word (though it sounded somewhat like the word for greetings in his tongue) but there was an easy confidence in the man's gait, a warmth etched into the ashen marble of his youthful features, that inspired her to speak. 

"Hello," she lilted back to him, gaze rising briefly to watch him curiously --wondering if perhaps he spoke the tongue of her people.