Bearclaw Valley valkyrie

towhee is approached.

good then that the woman approaches her and speaks then trying to draw her attention from behind her, towhee thinks.

it draws towhee out of her reverie, blinking with a small start; quickly reading the woman's lips. luckily. was she alright? her nightmare had been haunting, but that was all it was. a nightmare. no truth to it. no divine signs from something that towhee herself did not believe in.

a small nod is given.

milan.

towhee offers a soft, sheepish twitch of her lips; unable to return the favor of offering her own name: though she has gotten quite used to and grown attached to the nicknames that have been bestowed upon her over the years. quill. silenthunter. there have been many and would be many more, she does not doubt.

almost apologetically, she lifts her paw to touch her ears, her throat and then her mouth: a new and thus far effective way of communicating that she could neither hear nor speak and thus did not make for any sort of riveting conversationalist.