Nova Peak Núuruachiu

there was something in the woman's tone—gentle, without expectation—that was a balm to her aching bones.
"walk far—yes." she admitted, wearily, but steady, "farther still in thought."
she stepped closer and settled into the empty space, a slight tension still lingering in her posture. it wasn't just the weariness from the journey; it was a lifetime of old habits, of instincts unlearned.
"you keep your people's tradition alive. it is admirable, to tend to something old." she watches the woman. her hands that moved so deftly, guided by intuition and memory. with care, continuity, reverence. 
"where i come from, we make mead. never tried berries or leaves." she rolls her shoulders, shaking free the rigidity, "i will try, if you will drink too, with me."