Luneshale Pass naught left but the tree you were certain

soto's been part of the lowlands an entire celestial revolution; funny how the months bleed to nothing. his lexicon grew, though at times it was simply easier to speak his native tongue.

the look on the stranger's face conveys what soto suspects. he swaps through the mental catalogue of his mastered words, the index loading -- hovering over you were right as he parsed, piece by piece, a language he loathed speaking.

his brief puzzlement transforms as he recalls the circumstances he'd met this man. ghosts. he nods, brow shadowed by concentration as he tries to remember the words safiya uses when they encounter strangers on the dry plains.

you have come this way, to tell me this?