The stranger who appeared before her spoke in a foreign tongue.

Blanketed in coak of gray accented with subtle golds—they reminded her of Guinevere, if only for a fleeting moment. Yet no—Guin too was tall, but not nearly as much. And she was darker than he.

After a beat of silence, she spoke up. I don't understand a thing you're saying, dear. She remarked quietly; it was more of a mildly concerned comment than anything else. I take it you'd eaten some of those fermented berries? A chuckle, and her head turned back towards the darkening sky. The long, densely furred brush that sat at her side coiled forward and gingerly placed itself upon her forelimbs.

Another silence. Faeline was pensive, thinking about the land, about the folks, the food she'd consumed. All so curious, bringing forth skepticism when she'd first arrived at the festivities. But now...

She interrupted her own thoughts with an abrupt question. Are you... one of the locals? A brow arched, head canting slightly to the side.