So many. The reek of humid bodies clogged in her nostrils, slammed and pounded against her crown; ruby eyes shift shut, her inhale and exhale ragged. Lilómiel muttered in her ear, a wordless murmur of comfort to the unbound girl—one that did not comfort her beyond making her skin crawl and itch where his pious claws rubbed up against thickening summer hairs. Lids scud open—pupils dilating in the dim lighting—and irises flick, jumping over each body. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven... twelve. Looming failure leaps to the forefront of her mind (whether placed there by her black or by her own insecurities she was uncertain.) How could she even hope to outwit twelve others, most of which were older than her and no doubt more experienced in these twitchy, pointed games?

At least it seemed her bluff worked; the wolf gave her no more or less attention than all others, nor was she disqualified. Thanks the gods—perhaps the Moon Mother was on her side today after all.

The snow-white wolf rose, sitting upright, her bushy tail curling in an effemiate gesture Nymeria watched with a strange, zealous jealousy (such grace was the epitome of Nym's own goals in life)—but her hungry thoughts were swiftly diverted to the shifting mists. Teeth clip together firmly, the crack of ivories and the bolt of minute pain serving to redirect her focus. This was her chance; a moment to glorify her own nature and wits, to prove her cleverness and ability to problem-solve.

Lilómiel chirred his amusement, his wily and unpredictable thoughts frolicking near to—offering distraction from what she should be focusing on. His budding laughter, an odd sound caught midways between a scratchy purr and a rolling growl, decays beneath Nymeria's silent reprimand.

Brows knitting together, the daughter of the wolf listens, waits, and watches. With each tumultuous re-arrangement of the mists, her confusion grows, swelling into an tremulous uncertainty and a thick worry—that she will fail once again in pursuit of whatever prize lay waiting. An egg in any case... eyes dart towards the perfect oval cradled beneath the she-wolf's legs. She wonders what would happen if Lilómiel snatched it up—if they ran with it. It would easy to disappear in the swells of fog... but no. That's not how these functions are supposed to work. Besides, her bonded would have to get awfully close to the jaws of the white canid, and Nymeria did not wish to see Lil chewed up and spat out if everything went wrong.

The first to dare an answer is a vaguely intimidating woman. No; and then, I cannot guess the riddle, the clues are insufficient and unrelated to one another.

One by one they all follow: No, no, no, no, no, and yes. The grullo shifts her weight, eyes greedily settling on the man who dares to speak differently; her head cocks, a sinuous and deliciously feminine motion. And then she sinks back unto herself, letting the silence span, thinking, thinking, thinking, working the clues together and watching them fall apart.

Lilómiel, despite her occasional inquiry for assistance, stoicly ignores her.

And—at long last!—she settles on an appropriate answer.

"Yes, I can answer the riddle." Nymeria says, selecting her wording carefully; after all, the riddle had not asked to be solved. It had asked to be answered, not solved, and so she hoped—and prayed—it was but a trick question. "I can say yes, that is, but the riddle I cannot solve—I would say it's unsolvable, even, seeing as nobody else can give an answer."

Pick off my petals

and make my heat explode 'cause I've been saving all my summers for you