Nova Peak Núuruachiu

the delicate drink tastes mildly sweet, just as she'd said. like diluted honey down her throat, warming her from the inside. it was nothing like the bitter, heavy brews she'd known, concoctions made to fortify the body against cold.
"it is lighter than what i am used to—" she admits, "but good, unexpecting. takk fyrir."
the sweetness lingers on her tongue, subtle and unassuming. no sharpness. so like the woman before her. so unlike these frostburned mountains.
"one day, when winds grow cold, i may show you. makes the soul hot. good for northern winter." 
her question comes without warning. it is direct, but not unkind, "but you are not northern. like winsook lands. why choose here?"