Blackfoot Forest when night fell she placed hand upon breast; prayed for weeping days of rain

She hums, an absent sound, as she considers her newly met pack mate. Phocion. "It snowed where I am from, though I was younger, and perhaps less inclined to be bothered by such things," she tells him wryly. She doesn't dwell on it. Thoughts of childhood carry no particular nostalgia; she'd been taken for her purpose young and training occupies a great majority of her memories. 

"I was hoping to find some plants that might have survived winter's blow," Poet explains, finally. There isn't a point in being secretive, she supposes, and an extra pair of eyes could not hurt if he were so inclined. "Hyacinth or daffodils, preferably, but I'm unsure what grows around here. And any sort of unique memento: a bit of bone, a feather, something along those lines." She does not explain why, although if he asks, she would most likely. Perhaps leaving out some of the more ... unpleasant details, but nonetheless.