If she reaches out, she can feel Nymeria skirting the farmlands, running through fields fast enough to escape unwanted attention. The feel of grass beneath her paws and earth in her snout is a comforting one; it helps clear the smoke out of the dripping nose she wears now, helps her blink the irritating fog from eyes that will always be red and scratchy and not quite right.
She walks with an uneven gait when she walks at all; it's easiest to listen to crowds when you sit so still that they never notice anyone's there at all. She's used to disappearing against her surroundings. She's used to not understanding personal conversations, too, and it doesn't take long for Arya to shuffle-limp put to the two men. She doesn't recognizes the things the smoke is coming from, and wants a better look. So while she pretends to ignore the psychic's (not that she'd recognize him as such) discomfort, she thrusts one broad, calloused hand out to the conversationalists.
"Anythin' t'spare?" The voice is as blunt and masculine as the hand, as the face she wears, but dull, too. Behind the mask, she studies the men, memorizing faces and dress.
no subject
She walks with an uneven gait when she walks at all; it's easiest to listen to crowds when you sit so still that they never notice anyone's there at all. She's used to disappearing against her surroundings. She's used to not understanding personal conversations, too, and it doesn't take long for Arya to shuffle-limp put to the two men. She doesn't recognizes the things the smoke is coming from, and wants a better look. So while she pretends to ignore the psychic's (not that she'd recognize him as such) discomfort, she thrusts one broad, calloused hand out to the conversationalists.
"Anythin' t'spare?" The voice is as blunt and masculine as the hand, as the face she wears, but dull, too. Behind the mask, she studies the men, memorizing faces and dress.