Larksong Grotto deep down, you know that we are the same

her head tilted slightly, just enough to keep the woman within view, but she did not shift her stance. she didn’t need to. there was something about her stillness that was... dangerous. a poised arrow, drawn back in the bow. a blade in the sheathe.

“it doesn't take someone from darukaal to see him for what he is.” she replied flatly, stone-cut and unmoved. she could smell the strange on this woman now—dust and decay, old rites and older teeth. a woman who had seen too much and survived in spite of it. a kindred spirit, perhaps.

"nema hann sé fæddur til guðdóms, mun enginn segja hvar ég er." she flipped between her mother tongue and common at will. a breath. a pause. then, softer—though no less firm:“i needed space,” she said at last. her gaze flicked, cutting. “a woman has no place caged behind walls. i wanted the cold. the silence.”