Larka sniffed the air as if she could also smell everything that Kitty could smell. She couldn’t. Her sense of taste and smell were beyond repair, and while flavor meant very little to her now, the young conclave member appreciated the few times in between when she could actually smell something nice. Like the salty water of the sea or that overwhelming scent of a field of freshly bloomed flowers. Or, like now, the smell of fresh forest air. It was faint but it was there, that slight refreshing twinge of cedar and pine, a hint of moist earth.
It had rained here not long ago, that much she could tell, the lush ferns seemed to be reveling in it. The small foster was also reveling in it as well, although she did her best to keep her focus on the task at hand. Despite being resolute in trying to exude the seriousness she often saw in established venari, that faint smile was still on her lips. Larka always smiled, and at this point, many had just accepted it as some sort of bad habit that she couldn’t break.
Even now, with her stomach growling, telling her that she had gone long enough without a snack, Larka upheld her serious golden gaze and barely-there upward twinge of her lips. Her stomach growled once more, and Kitty gave a slight huff of a whimper. He always seemed to be far more upset about Larka being hungry more than anyone else. Probably because he had witnessed her extreme irritation whenever her hunger levels dipped too low. It was from said low hunger levels that she had named her customs canem hunting dog such a silly name.
But it was better than what Larka was saying before! Kitty could have been Barf Eater after the first time they had met and Kitty had decided now would be a good time to make green pancakes all over the place. She almost felt she had purposely been given the “defective one” because of her laughable height and that maybe they assumed she’d be dead soon enough. It only made her want to prove to the Conclave even more that she would be their most devout and greatest venari to serve them. Now and ever and ever, she would make the Conclave proud, that was a promise!
If only her stomach would stop it’s borborygmus. Larka blanched, a bit sheepishly. Her grip on Kitty tightened, although she made sure not pull up on it’s scruff. Not Kitty’s fault she was a voracious eater. Larka looked straight ahead, focusing her mind elsewhere. The trees were thinning now, and soon they would come out from the forest and be greeted with soft green hills that nestled around a plain. And at that plain was a village, the church right and center as was custom in Cortos, the steeple high in the sky so everyone in the village would know where to head when it was time to pray.
From afar, nothing seemed to be amiss in Gallica. Larka knew better, because Gallica had received a rather foreboding nickname. The Village of Rust.