Maybe she hadn't said the words outloud; maybe they had stuck in her molars, smeared like old grass over pale enamel. The moments stretch and unfurl, artistic and exotic, a heavy silence which fills up her nostrils and plugs up her ears, ruptured only by the hymn of her delicate hooves shifting over frost-kissed grass. Irises upturn beneath dark brows, silvered lashes coyly fixed together, a hesitant smile scrawled across her childish lips. It's as polite an inquiry as she can muster—a query as to what she's done wrong.

It's broken by a colorful stretch of words, twisted adjectives and verbs which spill and tie out together in a hazy acceptance. Hips sheer as the slim girl props up a hoof, the movement rippling throughout her body in a domino effect. The re-arrangement is subtle, a shift of shadows, a configuration of body language bespeaking submission and thinly veiled worry. She wonders, warily, nervously, from beneath her poised countenance if Arya speaks the truth—if the freckled yearling truly doesn't mind. It's difficult to tell; with others, not those of the wolf pack, they are never quite as readable, as familiar.

Trepidation is cracked by filigree curiosity, worming inquisition which straightens her crooked spine, smooths out the awkward hang of her lowly held head. Mother was a warlord, a goddess with scarred flesh and broken teeth, poorly healed bones and a temper of a wolf—and she loved mama, every inch of her from top to toe, but sometimes she wondered how she might be different should she not be tied to Confutatis. It was rare she got the chance to speak to others, or learn from the wide, wide world sprawled around her; and when she seized the chance, took the risk, it tended to pay off in blood and scrapes.

Teeth nimbly part, lips quirking into a tentative smile: "whose your mother?"

Ears press forward, listening carefully, studiously taking in every piece of Arya's teachings. Brows knit in a show of slight vexation, mild curiosity—surely it must be bothersome to be a thief? You would always have people chasing after you, vying for your trinkets. On the other hoof... it did strike her as a marvelously appealing idea, slithering through shadows and taking her victims as a viper did, in a flash of venomous fangs and a twist of coiled scales. To be a spy—to be a wraith.

"She sounds exciting," the meek little lamb offers, a lick of hesitant eagerness painted onto her courteous words.

At the other's dark smile, a flash of glittering ivories and mischievous meanings, Nymeria flinches, a twitch of terror flashing in her crimson eyes. She cringes, quivers, gaze dropping immediately to examine the curves of her hooves, the shape of her fetlocks, breath shortening in her breast. It's only when Arya speaks of a game long-played and adored that the World Eater's daughter relaxes, cherubic grin once again coming over her discomfited features. A game! Oh, but she did love games!

Without a moment's hesitation or a second thought, the skull-faced child disappears amongst the trees, racing through the woods in the brief time it takes for Arya to count. When her companion is finished, Nymeria had fitted herself snugly in a thicket of brambles, her left flank to a tree, her right to the bushes. Knees bend and fold awkwardly, ungainly, as she lies upon the damp soil, laying her head beneath the coarse bushes.

She will never find me here!

Nymeria & Lilómiel

In the darkness I will meet my creators
And they will all agree, that I’m a suffocator