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Early dawn awoke—casting its lights within the confines of Ullarcraig Run. Mist swimming within the lands began to roll over, disappearing in due time to reveal where within he stood by the water's edge, Ghost-pale eyes cast downwards to gaze upon his rippled reflection, to the twisted jaw upon his face- a reminder of failure, of Vendrussel's trails. 

He couldn't be there, thus he was here.

Walking further into the water's embrace Asmund leaned down to drink his fill in peace, in silence. No one to bare witness to his ugly manners.

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Shades of peach and blue painted the sky, a thick haze lining the territory of Ullarcraig. Water rippled beneath Gwyn's shifting weight, gently trudging through the shallow edges of the river. The maiden stared into the water's reflection, occasionally catching glimpses of what lay beneath the water, ears shifting to the subtle movements that were within hearing distance.

Lifting a golden gaze, the ginger wolfess observed an obsidian he-wolf baring a series of paler accents. He seemed preoccupied himself; there was no reason to worry for her safety, but she may as well announce herself so he didn't get the wrong idea. Indirectly, the lady called to him, "— May I sit?" She requested from the other side.

From a closer standing, she could outline noticable differences from this male and the average. He was unmistakably large with the weight to match it, a sharp, but mispositioned jaw. Bet that hurt. 

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A voice—fair and soft called out, stirring his attention. Letting his eyes trail up the leviathan was met with the pale specter of another whilst water descended from his chin in drips, plopping to the waters below only to create ripples that would no doubt reach them. "Kessa—"  He garbled slowly. The language still unknown to him prevented most conversations, but this he was able to know. A question. Or perhaps a feint of politeness.

"Yes," 

He would in time return his gaze to the waters below after taking in the golden image of this stranger. Their scent, while one he did not know- was sweet and light, did not go unnoticed. She was the same as Vendrussel he noted whilst peering blankly into reflected light surfaced on the water.  The hot feeling of her gaze on him—on his jaw, was not lost, and soon became apparent that any hopes for having a peaceful morning were squandered.
 
kostagon nyke dohaeragon ao? — May I help you?"

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The peculiarity of his words left Gwyn at a loss for words, at least words he would understand. A cloud of confusion sat on her mind for a moment, trying to recall something that would make sense to the brute. Though she had never heard it here, she could've sworn she'd heard it before. Her mother, Rowena, spoke something similar; Valyrian. Her mother tongue. "Daor- no." She muttered, still trying to recollect what she learned.

"Nyke've issare wandering nykeā while, sepār jorrāelatan nykeā pryjagon. Nyke sorry syt se intrusion. Issa brōzi iksos Gwyn." — I've been wandering a while, just needed a break. I'm sorry for the intrusion. My name is Gwyn. The maiden spoke, reciting her name to the obsidian gargoyle, forming a sense of formality and gentle courtesy. "Call me Gwyn," She repeated an english translation, perhaps in attempt to familiarize him with the common tongue.

Diverting her gaze, the lady lowered herself onto the ground, cooled water lapping at ivory paws. Though the feeling was not foreign to her, Gwyndolyn could only imagine how he must've felt about his.. injury of sorts. He must've gotten all sorts of weird looks; she wouldn't do the same as others may have, best just leave it be.

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"Ao ȳdragon ziry?" — You speak it? He breathes, clearly taken aback. This maiden—Gwyn was the first familiarity he had encountered in these lands, and staring quite boldly with his ghostly pale gaze, sought to drink in every aspect of her. She poised an elegance reminiscent of his home, yet was not dark like his clan, nor big. Her ginger warm fur blazed in stark contrast to the ebony of his own, and her eyes— an emerald jade. She was pretty, he had to admit, and for that, he was interested if not for their nomenclature.

"Skoriot gaomagon ao māzigon hen?" — Where do you come from? He would ask in a gargled tone whilst attempting to steer closer with a face of stone. His shoulders rolling with every step, and his head hung low to her level and tail raised. "Issi konīr tolī? — Are there more?"

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She nodded softly, "Valyrīha iksos issa muñnykeā ēngos." — "Valyrian is my mother tongue." Despite her initial uncertainty, the longer she thought, the clearer the language became. Perhaps interest sparked in those sterling eyes, glazing over her auburn and cream bodice. Lifting her gaze, she observed in silence as he spoke once more.

"Se memories issi blurred sir, yn Ravea istan se region nyke called lenton. Valyrīha istan daor pōja native udrir, yn issa mothers taught ziry naejot issa early va." — The memories are blurred now, but Ravea was the region I called home. Valyrian was not their native language, but my mothers taught it to me early on. She replied, shifting slightly as the brute stalked closer. He claimed a dominant stance, one she would not fight to regain if she had the chance.

The huntress shook her head, already feeling the disappointment she'd feel if she was in his position. "Daor bona nyke gīmigon hen, olvie wolves ȳzaldrīzes english syt se olvie part, yn nyke kostagon jurnegon around se ivestragī ao gīmigon lo nyke find anyone? Nyke gīmigon ziry līs sagon qopsa." — Not that I know of, most wolves speak english for the most part, but I can look around and let you know if I find anyone? I know it must be hard,

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The leviathan stops in his tracks at the fair woman's words, cold calculating eyes narrowing in thought.

"Skoros iā shame — What a shame" he replies with a slow shake of his head, tiny ears folding back in displeasure atop his crown. He should of known— The disappointment is heavy.

He turns away, abandoning his path toward the fragile woman in favor for the chilling water's embrace once more. He wades into it slowly, the edges of his fur catching in ripples, and with it convinces himself interest starts to wash away as well.  Yet he steers himself to not be rude. "Asmund is Skoros pōnta yne brōzā — what they call me," he offers before continuing with lap at the water, water falling sloppily out of his crooked jaw. "Ao sagon mērī kessa? yknagon ȳdragons. — You're a loner, yes? Your scent is telling"

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Brows knitting, Gwyndolyn expelled a small breath of awkward discomfort; the dismay he may have felt was immeasurable, but there was little she could do to help him.

Sitting her haunches onto the ground, she let the clear water brush along her lower back. "Se udrir barrier iksos.. Unfortunate naejot se wolves qilōni issi unfamiliar rūsīr se quptenkys Ēngos, naejot vestragon se least." — The language barrier is.. unfortunate to the wolves who are unfamiliar with the common tongue, to say the least. Valyrian was a foreign dialect; few understood it.

The gargoyle giant — Asmund — made note of her scent as he turned, padding into the cool liquid. "Nyke, though nyke haven't encountered naenie packs. Nyke tend naejot stray qrīdrughagon hen already claimed territory. — skoro syt gaomagon ao epagon?" — I am, though I haven't encountered many packs. I tend to stray away from already claimed territory. Why do you ask?

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