Stavanger Bay it is a common fault

As an unexpected as it was, someone was quick to advance. 

A tall figure, well built, and with pale white fur surrounding them, much alike her own. Cyrena would halt, lifting her chin to level upon the stranger's gaze. 

"Hail." They spoke.

So a man, then; gathered by the depth of his tone.

Blinking softly, the woman offered a small tip of her snout. This came before she would speak. I greet you, scarred man of silver robe. Words came, soothing as they parted the tongue like the trickle of honey.

Perhaps it seemed odd, announcing the most distinguished features whilst greeting. Though, it would take knowledge of her culture to understand. When not knowing an individual's name, simply saying "hello" was disrespectful. All must be given some recognizable title, and for this man, a descriptor of his appearance would suffice, for that is what he could be recognized by.