Thalassa
A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.
Not feeling particularly interested in the woman's excuses, Thal flicks her wrist in annoyance. Her thoughts just filter back to the fact that this woman might just deserve the situation she had found herself in. The little goodwill that had resided in her had already been spend rowing out to that teetering piece of driftwood. All that remains is bitter sarcasm and salty ocean waters. The castaway's shouted words barely reach Thal as she swiftly approaches the shops. She doesn't even stop as she calls over her shoulder, "Whatever you say, Princess." Although, it's good to hear that she doesn't currently have a death wish, Thal is already developing whiplash from her bipolar decisions. Is she a "strong independent woman who doesn't need help"? Or does she want to put on more layers than what the natural boutique of King's End had offered her?
She doesn't really care at this point and proceeds to duck into a nearby clothing stall. The colorful threads scream loudly at her eyes, making her nauseous with irritation. Her preferred palette is: black. That's it. Maybe some silver, but whether it's black leather or black silk or black fur, she only ever picks black. So seeing the myriads of options from the spectrum is like walking into a perfume shop when you usually frequent a dirt cave with stale air. Her headache is powerful and immediate.
To speed along their visit, she prowls up to the saleswoman, not pausing to inspect the wares. Instead, she indicates to the obvious reason for their visit and says in a commanding voice, "Find me something cheap that will keep this girl from freezing." Thal turns away without watching to see if her orders are followed, they always are and she stands with the confidence of someone who knows that. Now addressing her new stray, she speaks with a clipped tone. "Who are you and why were you lost at sea?"
