Dragoncrest Cliffs get a hold of yourself

He was the north wind. She could understand that much. Now he accepted the word she had given for herself. Even if it wasn't her real name it would not matter.

When he moved again to touch her, or at the very least reach for the fur of her shoulder, Heiðr didn't have the self-awareness to move or even to flinch, if she felt any such inclination. The moment passed quickly enough.

He brought forth the fish next. In her current medically-induced state the scales of the fish looked beyond iridescent: luminous certainly, with little to no defined shape the the belly, and a stone-like cleave to the gill along the head's base.

Fiskur. Her eyes linger a while on the glittering pile of ice that the fish has become. She stares down at its slack face, unaware of how slack her own features appear.