the tall dame approaches like a shadow cast in motion—light-footed despite her size, head held high with a calm assurance she saw in her mother.

thrúd doesn’t hide the way she watches her. nor the quiet curiosity in the glance she tosses at the caribou again, as if seeing them differently now through the lens of the girl's voice. she hums along in accordance to her words, softened just a little. she lets the silence stretch, long enough for the snow to settle, before a question—strange, though not unexpected—lands in her ears.

thrúd blinks, not startled but amused. something in the phrasing scratches pleasantly at the edge of her mind, the way stories do. no, but i'm finding my around easy enough. she answers after a moment. i am thrúd gjallasdottir, of stormrift.