Luneshale Pass On sunny days

sorry for letting her drop. can i get her added back? thank you!

what i am good at… she echoed, the words soft as prayer, touched by the musical tremor of her native tongue. ai, senhor kemal—isso is a difficult thing to say of oneself, não?

margarida’s gaze drifted to the horizon, where the light bled gold through the pass. the sun caught in her lashes, in the silvered edges of her fur. i have known hunger, she said finally, tone low and contemplative. the kind that makes you clever. the kind that teaches patience. i am good with small things—threads, herbs, the way hides dry in the wind. i know how to listen, and how to see what others overlook.

a pause, and she looked at him then, truly looked—dark eyes steady, flecked with that quiet, unflinching curiosity that seemed to make men uncomfortable. and i am good with secrets, she confessed in a whisper, almost a smile ghosting her lips. they come to me, sometimes. maybe because i do not speak them back.

her tail brushed the earth idly. if verapaz breathes, i can help it breathe softer. stronger. her chin tilted, a little proud. you will not regret my oath, senhor.