The unfamiliar bellowing across the way causes her to perk up from the sorting already underway with a perturbed confusion. The fish lowers from her hand, resting atop the large bag at her side and she plucks a skin of water and chamois out from a pouch. The cloth is doused and pressed to the side of her face as she continues to stare into the dark woods, not entirely sure the source of it.Â
"And what manner of nonsense is this now," she mutters, adjusting her arm so that the palette knife's handle sinks back to her palm. "Aiswynd, Malboro do not speak... do they?"
Her attention shifts between the other three by the fire, taking a chance to appraise each one and finally settles on Dacein and his sword.
"And what manner of nonsense is this now," she mutters, adjusting her arm so that the palette knife's handle sinks back to her palm. "Aiswynd, Malboro do not speak... do they?"
Her attention shifts between the other three by the fire, taking a chance to appraise each one and finally settles on Dacein and his sword.
