He comes to her like a shadow, for that is all he seems to be on the outside. A looming presence, a warning, nothing more. She wonders how long he has built himself into that persona, whether it reflects the realities of his soul. Is he a martyr, taking up the mantle of the untouchable for the sake of protecting his herd? How many stared into the darkness of his face and did not see the living soul inhabiting the stalwart figure? How many times had she done so? Surely there was more to him than stoicism and battle prowess. Surely in all his years as a pillar of the Basin, he had developed into a complex individual. And yet they took him for granted, over and over again. Relying upon the might of his name and title, the unfaltering loyalty he displayed without qualm or question, rather than their own herd unity and individual strength. She felt saddened and ashamed before him, beneath the weight of insecurity and defeat that seemed so childish in comparison to what he must have faced. He was far older than she, and had surely been burdened by her ascension. She had no faith in her own battle abilities, and her days as a thief were few and far between since she'd promoted Rexanna in her stead. She was too obvious a figure, too recognizable a bodice, to return to that shadowed lifestyle. Her actions had a far stronger impact on her herd than when she'd been an Impersonator. They were little more than figureheads anymore, for all the restrictions placed upon their station. 

And yet here they ended up, together, solitary. Fate or coincidence, she couldn't tell. Her name a low sound on his lips, a murmur of syllables that held so much more than the legend she'd been handed at her birth. Wondered if maybe she, too, was more complex than others gave her credit for. If he looked at her and thought what she was thinking in that moment, or if he was burdened by her inability to separate herself from the drama of the other herdlands. Not that she'd ever asked for it, but she certainly always seemed to attract it nonetheless. 

"Deimos," she allowed, softer than the gravel vocals of her counterpart. She turned to haul herself from the steaming waters, the chill of the air like a slap as her wet skin tried to adjust to the vastly different temperatures. Perhaps they should enclose the area, if only to make departure less displeasing. 

"Are you well? We've not spoken in ages," she lilted, sincerity a rare commodity in her conversations, but one she offered plainly to this man she respected so deeply. They rarely spoke at all, in fact, aside from business like promotions and recruitment. But she wanted to know how he was. And the distinction was obvious in the way she looked at him, feeling the same weariness he carried. And she felt like she didn't deserve it, to look at him that way, not when he had surely carried far more than she. 

I'm not a girl, I'm storm with skin