Lion Head Mesa forty-second

In moments, her head bowed. Her eyes averted. Her thin front legs, they splayed. In mind, she put herself far, far below him. She was at his will, and thus at his question, she only spoke once she saw permission to answer. Her bones had a pleasant crawl that she released through a slight shiver of her back. She held, for him, a slight smile and calm, yet stormy eyes. A storm that subdued, and made way for his entrance.

Entrance she welcomed. Her ears gave slight twitch to the water brought to her feet, and though she did not look up, she acknowledged it. Acknowledged him. Her attention was pinned in the low light of one of the passages. Whether or not she needed permission, she did not know. Though, there the prince was, offering his tongue in word.

"I am no great warrior. My body holds no competency for the strength of a lancer or prideful Yaret." In Prince, there is calm. A gift he must have used wisely, and she understood such in his view. Then she would not take it for granted. "I am messenger," she told.