The woman says something, a name accented with heavy Avvar inflection — Ástríður — but then pauses and reconsiders. “Astrid,” simplified. “New. You?”
New to Riftwatch, that is, and evidently still finding her sea legs here in several different ways. When called upon to hypothesise on dragons, Astrid looks contemplative again. This ain’t in her field of expertise, but fuck it:
“They’ve not got feathers, do they? Won’t get water-logged, and rain like this’d just roll off the scales or leathery skin or whatever. Could fly through this storm where something else couldn’t, maybe.” Her expression is thoughtful. This topic is helpfully distracting her from her queasy, topsy-turvy stomach.
“I’ve never seen one though, so fuck if I know. I did think I killed a small dragon once but it was just a very big gurgut.”
no subject
New to Riftwatch, that is, and evidently still finding her sea legs here in several different ways. When called upon to hypothesise on dragons, Astrid looks contemplative again. This ain’t in her field of expertise, but fuck it:
“They’ve not got feathers, do they? Won’t get water-logged, and rain like this’d just roll off the scales or leathery skin or whatever. Could fly through this storm where something else couldn’t, maybe.” Her expression is thoughtful. This topic is helpfully distracting her from her queasy, topsy-turvy stomach.
“I’ve never seen one though, so fuck if I know. I did think I killed a small dragon once but it was just a very big gurgut.”