with a graveyard tan carrying a cross

She paused from her riffling in the damp cold soil, her nose glistening with dew and hoary moss. For a moment she met his soft gaze -- his admittance that he was a local caused her to pause from her surveillance and reconsider how best to now address him.

Mordecai's next question seemed almost hopeful - intuitively, Caiaphas picked up on the delicate intonation behind the inquiry, and she swung around full circle to reapproach him, though she was also cataloging Neverwinter's floral denizens. "So you must be a local, then. Can you tell me about where I am, who is here?" She brushed past his question in an inadvertently rude manner -- and as if apologetic, rushed an answer to his question. "Not yet." She proffered -- both a truth and an untruth -- she had not truly been indoctrinated into the Nereides, and the Nereides had not truly been formed -- yet she felt she belonged to them now all the same.