Dawnlark Plains please don't dress in black when you're at his wake

The woman used words that were like lanzadoii, but different. Like sunshine, but different. There were many people of the north like them and Sulukinak was slowly coming to realize the variation was immense. She did not recognize what was said, although the woman tried and struggled through a common tongue; her accent was strong, and Sulukinak figured her's would be too, for the same reason.

The leaves were familiar in that, they were like weeds in many places. They looked like any other plant to Sulukinak, but she was not taught of herbs, and saw very little value in this. Her nose wavered over the pile of leaf-litter and she sniffed, skeptical, cautious, curious.

Her bright eyes flicker up to the woman's face as she asks, you carry life?

A small nod follows—and while she is not yet comfortable enough to take the leaves, she does not refuse them either. Squinting at the woman, her shoulders tight together and her posture rigid—good, you said. Good for... this?

Or was she being tricked?