Rhydian watched as the silver stranger approached, her warmth so blatant it greeted his senses like morning sun against freshly-laden snow. High Priestess. The title alone gripped him, dragging an old bitterness to the surface. He swallowed any distaste that flooded his maw.

Faeline, ever the confident woman, had already established their intent. Now it was his turn to speak plainly.

His ears flicked as he took Valeska in: the easy smile, the polite lilt behind that thick accent. An accent he did not recognize. He wondered if her softness was natural, or merely the way this 'Elysium' kept its walls unbloodied. Either way, he held his suspicions close.

"We seek answers. We've travelled far enough. We were told this —" his chin tipped slightly to indicate the woods behind her, "— was the place to ask for them."

His eyes, dark and flint-hard despite the fatigue engraved in his bones, flicked to Faeline as if reaffirming their purpose aloud. Then his vision reformed, occupied now with the image of the snow-laden Priestess.

“My daughter. Morriva. And my son, Aedric. Word reached us that they may have been seen near these lands.”

A beat. His voice softened, barely enough to linger in the air and not be swept away by the breeze. Just firm enough to reveal the iron truth beneath all his weariness.

He swallowed.

"I would know if they still breathe."