[A lot of unnecessary information, but in the simplest way: he asked, and she answered, and it wouldn't bother her if he committed it to memory or not. He wanted to know in the moment, or she assumes he wouldn't have asked otherwise. Sarcasm isn't completely lost on her, but as human tendencies can be in general sometimes she's not... up to speed. Constant conversation isn't her forte, whatsoever.
And this proves itself again, because rather than answer, although content with his, she merely sets to work to provide him with a spot to catch a breather. Bodily, she digs vigorously and relentlessly into the snow. He'll want to be certain to stay in front of her, because she's throwing it out beyond her in deep piles. This isn't the only thing, however. Concerned the blow of the wind will fill the temporary den she's carving out with snow once more, she counters it with her own divine one. Nothing seen, obviously, but with deliberate swipes of her tail, accessing that astral plane, she paints and paints her own breezes.
Since it's wind, and not stale air, he's bound to feel it coming from behind. Calmer, but forceful. Not quite as strong as the storm pushing the other way, but still persistent in driving it back, working most of it off him. It only works here, in this small space on the land with them, if he were to step away, the original wind might batter him violently. Her head doesn't lift to mind either, she keeps digging, and gradually, yet swiftly and steadily, begins to vanish from sight, having created a hole to pull more snow free from. It won't be long, but it may take her a minute to accomplish this task. She has to make it large enough that they can sit, and that she can produce a fire for him.
Just a little more. Please wait a— is how she finally sends her ancient voice to him again, finally, though it does cut off, like a lost connection. Putting herself to work like this is all well and good, but between all the digging and her ceaseless painting, she loses her godhood. She's managed to form a hole in the sturdy snow big enough to fit herself thus far, and perhaps another half of her, but the break is necessary. She can't do anything extraordinary when she's mortal, when her essence is lost to her. This is why the voice she has that can move in his blood stream or reverberate in his bones is gone, too.
The wind that's been rushing toward them and the others suddenly picks up, as unforgiving as it's been since the beginning, and she's laying on her belly in the partially dug out den, ears pinned, head tilted back to pant in excess, her sides going and going. But there's no red marks, there's no mirror swirling in holy fire, no faint glow to her, or little feathers. She's just a white wolf. That's it: plain and simple. It'll take a minute or two for her stamina to restore, and in the meanwhile, she watches snow start to sprinkle and build up in the opening.]
no subject
And this proves itself again, because rather than answer, although content with his, she merely sets to work to provide him with a spot to catch a breather. Bodily, she digs vigorously and relentlessly into the snow. He'll want to be certain to stay in front of her, because she's throwing it out beyond her in deep piles. This isn't the only thing, however. Concerned the blow of the wind will fill the temporary den she's carving out with snow once more, she counters it with her own divine one. Nothing seen, obviously, but with deliberate swipes of her tail, accessing that astral plane, she paints and paints her own breezes.
Since it's wind, and not stale air, he's bound to feel it coming from behind. Calmer, but forceful. Not quite as strong as the storm pushing the other way, but still persistent in driving it back, working most of it off him. It only works here, in this small space on the land with them, if he were to step away, the original wind might batter him violently. Her head doesn't lift to mind either, she keeps digging, and gradually, yet swiftly and steadily, begins to vanish from sight, having created a hole to pull more snow free from. It won't be long, but it may take her a minute to accomplish this task. She has to make it large enough that they can sit, and that she can produce a fire for him.
Just a little more. Please wait a— is how she finally sends her ancient voice to him again, finally, though it does cut off, like a lost connection. Putting herself to work like this is all well and good, but between all the digging and her ceaseless painting, she loses her godhood. She's managed to form a hole in the sturdy snow big enough to fit herself thus far, and perhaps another half of her, but the break is necessary. She can't do anything extraordinary when she's mortal, when her essence is lost to her. This is why the voice she has that can move in his blood stream or reverberate in his bones is gone, too.
The wind that's been rushing toward them and the others suddenly picks up, as unforgiving as it's been since the beginning, and she's laying on her belly in the partially dug out den, ears pinned, head tilted back to pant in excess, her sides going and going. But there's no red marks, there's no mirror swirling in holy fire, no faint glow to her, or little feathers. She's just a white wolf. That's it: plain and simple. It'll take a minute or two for her stamina to restore, and in the meanwhile, she watches snow start to sprinkle and build up in the opening.]