Her name was parrotted—an accent she hadn't heard before. Citlali tilted her head with wonder, with curiosity. Cloud Lash... a mimicked action, rolling the name over her tongue as if to accustom herself with each syllable.

There was a soft rustle, just to her side. Her head turned to follow as the footfalls drew near, halted with a soft thump that she assumed was the stranger, the one deemed Cloud Lash, reclining onto the ground. Her pale peach nose began to twitch, drawing her visage nearer, inspecting the scent of the other. It was fresh—fresh with the same scent harbored by these lands. Perhaps she lived here.

Citlali's ears, once held low in neutrality, swiveled forward as the voice spoke again—vowels and consonants in all odd places, words she'd never dreamed of hearing. Brows arched. You speak in runes, Cloud Lash, she remarked. Her voice was reverent, a mixture of awe and amusement. A nudge was placed against her withers, a whisper breathed in tandem with it—Citlali did not need to be told twice. She leaned back down yet again, limbs sprawled out over the grass.

The girl dipped her head further. The grass smelled different on the other's paws—of different plants, not the turf they lounged upon. There was a freshness of mint, and something pungently sweet. Had Cloud Lash gathered these herbs, she wondered—her tongue lapped over her nose. What are these? Her head canted sideways.