In the first week or two of Nymeria's time in the Hidden Falls, kis holló had weighed heavily on her thoughts. There were a great many things about the massive hybrid that didn't sit well with Nym, first and foremost being her name; Nymeria didn't want to make unnecessary or undeveloped hypotheses, but it was undeniably strange that somebody would be carrying around the name kis holló—a name given by one with a knowledge of her first tongue. Her curiosity had abated as time passed, being put aside in favour of more important ideas, but occasionally it gave a twitch in the back of her mind, a sudden impulse to know and understand what she did not know.

Despite the scents she now carried on her hide, she made frequent forays into the wild. Herd life, she was beginning to discover, was not quite as confining as she had thought it would be. Most times, horses didn't seem to care if she was there or not—she hadn't even had to attend a meeting yet. The flexibility suited her. So long as she didn't do anything utterly foolish, Nymeria had freedom, and, however distant from her they were, a new kind of family.

It was on one of these forays that she heard the thunder of massive wings overhead, accompanied by a blustering wind that tousled her curls and the sharp tang of fir and pine. Dark eyes darted upwards to observe the massive and instantly recognizable body of the Storyteller, cutting a black and bold silhouette against the cerulean sky.  Kis holló, Nymeria thought, the Storyteller. She recalled thinking that the title had suited her well, for more reason than one—and then her memories gave another erratic twitch, ushering forth a multitude of half-buried thoughts and uncertainties.

It was not entirely polite or trustworthy of her to follow (if she were caught stalking, it would hardly make a good impression) but she checked her GPS and plugged in a new set of co-ordinates. The possibilities outweigh the risks.

Nymeria followed on foot, and Lilómiel, well, he sat on her shoulders as to minimize the likelihood of being seen. They were fortunately close to the Riptide Isles, being slightly north of the Halcyon Flats, and it did not take long for them to cross the channel to the archipelago. It took less time for them to reach Isopia, who stood near the shore.

We'll need to be careful. There was something to the shape of kis holló now that was different than their first meeting, a hollowness to her eyes and her mouth (but her mouth was not hollow so much as hard and brittle and tightly bottled) that betrayed a distress or a darkness or a grievance private in nature—one that Nymeria was willing to exploit. Still, she did not make a beeline for the Storyteller; she drifted up the coastline in a well maintained picture of casualness, all the while thinking, all the while planning. Kis holló was not an easy one to put her figure on—she was perturbingly alien, short of word but not brusque nor rude; but more than that, she struck too close to home in her skull-faced marking and proud bearings. So naturally Nymeria desired to be know her; naturally Nymeria wanted to discover if she were friend or ally or enemy or villain, all of which felt possible around the Storyteller.

As she nears, her stride clips and she slows, head rising in curiosity; her nostrils flare a touch, and a smile flicks up the corners of her lips. Yes, she thought—there was definitely something awry to the Storyteller now as opposed to earlier. Or perhaps there was something... wrong with her when she first met me. There wasn't enough evidence, not enough fact to draw a conclusion.

Instead of saying hello she jumps to the meat of it, hoping that Isopia would prefer such a frank approach: "kis holló," she says courteously, "you seem... different, if I might be so blunt. Is something amiss?"