She is like darkness, but not entirely. Not a metaphor but a simile. A loud, gorgeous dedication to the twilight of evening—and so very unlike the whispered rumors of roguish, shadowed Northerners. Galadriel cannot help but to take to her immediately, to be drawn in by the gossamer evening spell and the velvet voice. She thinks if she were to find a friend amongst any of the Northerners that were not Reave—a true friend, if a bit capricious—this might be the one.
“Wrenley,” Rel purrs the woman’s name back at her while tilting her head. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she adds, then pauses, “And I hope to soon call you a friend.” She knows the smile that arches her lips should be diplomatic, generous. It should be warm and welcoming and so, so lovely; but faced with a creature so like her, so genuine in her garbs of shadowed silk, she cannot help but to allow a companionable bite gleam in those teeth.
A quiet hope between wretched girls.
“Galadriel,” she answers, considering her next words carefully. “I came by way of another Northerner . . . One in Nerine.” Rel doesn’t dare reveal Reave, though the thought of him leaves her words breathless and murmuring.
“What’s your favorite place in Taiga?” Rel quickly deflects from the emotion, settling curious violet eyes back in her companion.
@Wrenley