She notices how her whiskers seem suddenly heavier. They’re cold. Then it’s her breath as it coils from her nostrils in a single plume before she breathes again. In… Out… In… Out… The sudden briskness is startling, but she stares at him, her mind reeling. A Winter King, perhaps? Much to her dismay, she has no counteract or rebuttal. Fire doesn’t pour through her veins and melt the miniscule icicles clutching to her whiskers. She doesn’t breathe heat that rips through the chill of his cold. All she can do is stand enveloped in this personal winter as it sinks its knives deep into her flesh and into her bones. ”A man of the cold,” is all she can bring herself to say at first, but then she is finally able to retaliate upon a whim.
The soil around him vibrates and rolls to life. A large clod of it rises on its own accord and hovers briefly before pelting Ruan’s cheek. A humored grin stretches across Nayl’s lips – the first amiable expression she has shown him – and an airy chuckle follows in close pursuit. ”I can do more if you keep me trapped in your mini winter,” She still can’t help but revel in having her powers back, in being entirely whole again.
But then she is sobered by his concluding question. Her gaze flickers away thoughtfully, measuring and wondering how her name could possibly go unheard and unknown by this point in time. Her mind is shielded by an abysmal wall and she hardly has to try anymore to mirror that on her face. Stoic at first, then somewhat judgmental, as her head inclines back toward Ruan. ”I take it you and your Queen don’t have great communication,” her tone is icy much like the air between them now, her earlier jokes quickly pushed aside, ”or perhaps there are other reasons you would avoid a political meeting and not familiarize yourself with the other lands.” There is a barb in her voice as she remembers that day, although it had been fairly brief. ”I visited your forest years ago and spoke with Reagan. I’m Nayl, Queen of Nerine.” Her eyes narrow, but they are hidden beneath her unruly forelock, scrutinizing him now that their metaphorical ice between them has been melted by the heat in her voice.
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