Arrow Lake whose vowels are the sound of metal clashing

a gentle chuff draws praimfaya out of her self-pity party as her body changes from lounging carelessly to alert and she peers over her shoulder at the pale woman. a flick of praimfaya's ear is given as the woman asks her something — a question derived from the tone in which was used — in a language that was neither trig or common and praimfaya does not understand. perhaps, she considers, this is how others feel when i speak trig but the confusion she feels is not near enough to warrant her to stop. trig is her favored tongue, after all. it is a piece of her identity woven far too deeply within her makeup to be scrubbed out.

a small, albeit warm smile tugs at the corners of the wanheda's smile. you don't have to be sorry, she assures the older woman. i can, praimfaya replies thoughtfully. but i prefer land to water. she admits.

and then because she can't help herself asks, what language was that, that you spoke? though she is a body of her own people that does not mean she is not interested in the cultures of those around her.