Deepwood Weald arctocephalus

The seconds ticked by. He felt as if he could hear Sulukinak's mind whirring, and so he was patient in his expectation — but he did still expect. A good measure of time had passed before he began to wonder if she was still behind him at all. He peeked again, and then slowed to a halt when he saw her uncertainty.

"Peace, bachchee. You can tell me 'no'," he said, gentling his tone once more.

She worried him. He did not understand what sort of environment could have made this girl. Was she afraid, or was she merely shy? Would this fear forever make her shrink away, or would it one day make her lash out in violence? He did not know, but he would need to before the spring came and Ariadne's babes were upon the mountain.

"Will you tell me something else? Something you liked from where you grew?" he asked, hoping to find a topic without much weight. Something simple, something she could feel comfortable saying to him so that she would learn that saying things could be comfortable. "Or perhaps you would like to hear a story of my own." Perhaps she needed to be given something before she could be convinced to give up anything of herself. And perhaps she just needed to be given things for no reason. Her trust, he thought, was tenuous. She needed to be won. "Some stories are not easily told. I know this. But I promise mine will be easily heard."