An appreciative smile crept up his maw only slightly, though he was still untrusting on how much validity was in her words. It's happened before, 'I won't be afraid' they would say, 'i just want to see the face of my savior' they would continue. Yet every time his helmet was pulled off his head, terror would fill their bodies.
She had already seen it, though, and Whitlock never tended to be irrational. His head would turn slightly back toward her, the hesitancy to turn back and face her was created entirely by himself.

Are you a poet? He couldn't help but ask, listening to her words speak so beautifully and eloquently about the seasons. Such things were only reserved for scholars and nobles, people who had the time to read books and write stories. He wondered if she were wealthy or was simply raised very isolated. His mind wandered into visions of princesses in towers, guarded by dragons. Fairytales he would enjoy as a child.
He never could remember how they ended.

Sorry- The man corrected himself and looked down at the ground once more to gather himself before looking back up at her. I forget myself. You just speak so beautifully. He admitted, giving her a bow of his head.

Are you from around here..? He wondered aloud. Surely someone like this was from here, perhaps a native to these lands? It would make sense, to him at least, that he was the only one out of place. She seemed so calm and peaceful on the outside- something he misinterpreted as a product of (what looked like) a calm and peaceful land such as this.