†
Temblor has startled her. She turns about to face him with wide eyes, eyes the color of a turbulent sea. He holds her gaze a little longer than is perhaps proper, caught by the unusual color. Against her copper face they are quite striking. He must admit that all of her is striking: her pale coat enhances the rich red-brown patches adorning her head, chest, and flanks, and highlights her vivid hair. She is a pleasure to behold, and when she speaks, a pleasure to hear: her voice is soft but strong, unshaken by whatever it is that lurks behind her. Though, as it soon comes to light, there is nothing all that terrible hiding in the trees.
He chuckles appreciatively at her joke. He has felt the weight of his worries more often than not these last few days, and her levity is refreshing. When she comments on his wounds, Temblor casts a glance back to survey his right side. He hadn't paid much attention to the scrapes and scratches he received during that terrible storm, as the worst of it had been internal, but he eyes the healing scratches marring his dappled coat and wears a wry smile as he tries for a bit of humor, himself.
"More like being chased. I found myself caught in a mudslide near home— it felt like the earth itself was trying to hold me, probably so the tree floating down it could claim me for herself. She was... insistent." He chuckles at the absurdity. It's nice to make light of what could have been a deadly encounter, to shrug it off as silliness and pretend he hasn't been concerned about the extent of the damage to his hip. He blows out a soft breath, amused, and lets the rest of his worries out with it.
He surveys the rest of the Commons. The meadow in which they stand is still unoccupied, but he can still hear the busyness of this particular section of the Crossing isle. An errant squeal of protest sounds in the distance, brief but sharp, and his ear flicks in that direction. He wonders how close the conflict which drove her to this field is. One ear he points at Shiloh: the other twists, vigilant.
"I'm Temblor," he introduces himself. "I live on Atlantis, in a humble land called Paradise." He smiles as he says it; the land is beautiful, to be sure, but a paradise? Perhaps only to some. "Where is it you're from?" he asks, thinking of what both Annubis and Oswin have told him about the history of these isles— that there are legacies here, and that some names carry more weight than others.
TEMBLOR
& swallows you whole
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