Lone Star Mountain ships on vigor of the waves are skimming

Raen was anything but petite. A massive, lumbering frame still lanky with a youthfulness that matched her in spite and - more importantly - bite. But suppose a princess of sorts would know well to mind her tongue, for a time. She'd watched her mother closely. The company, though a quick glance gave the mountain daughter pause, was better than the monotony of the mountainside.

Aye, she started, her voice every bit as rugged as an irishwolf's should be, though it was clear it was that of a girl nearing her proper adulthood. Me name's Raen. Yer's? a white-tipped ear flicked passively as she lowered herself onto a nearby patch of rock. Might as well take a small break.

She hadn't seen this one before. He was new to her. Older, by the smell o' him.