Hideaway Strath in death's shadow

Qvasir tilted his head slightly, his pale gaze flickering with faint amusement at her deflection. Exiled? he said softly, his tone carrying neither pity nor judgment—just a thread of genuine interest. His eyes lingered on the yellow tag in her ear, a strange marker of a life he could only begin to guess at.

Madre,... sounds like quite the story. The faintest trace of a smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, a spark of curiosity igniting in his expression. Sweet talk, hmm? I think I could manage that, though I might need more than just words to coax such a tale out of you.

He let the silence hang for a moment, watching as her gaze shifted briefly away, her exhaustion betraying her despite her defiant posture. But first, he added, his tone shifting to something more practical, you look like you need something a bit more tangible than words. Food, perhaps? You won't be getting very far on an empty stomach. He stepped forward slightly, his movements slow and measured, offering no threat but a subtle invitation.