C A L L A
"It is," Calla agrees absently, though her attention is now on the little dragon and the spirit that dances in its icy breath like water over sand. It's curious now, the Keeper senses, flickering from snout to tail while expressing how in its day dragons were large and ferocious. Calla's lips purse and twist as she bites back the instinct to chide it: she has to remember that she's not alone, there's a person listening in.
Speaking of. Calla's dark eyes flicker back to the pretty stranger, sweeping across the artfully tousled hair, the perfect nose, the rosy lips. A far cry from the Keeper's own disheveled features and soot-smudged skin, and she feels a flutter of embarrassment to think how she must appear to this literal queen. "Maybe," she agrees, a little doubtfully. "Whatever it is, the spirits don't like it. Though not as much as- oh!"
Something gleams in the grey, dead grass, catching Calla's eyes. Distracted, she kneels down and plucks it up, using her rag to wipe away the soot that stains its surface. At once the girl's solemn expression cracks and gives way to wonder; she holds the stone out to the other to see, delighting in its beauty. "Oh, look! What do you think it is?" Because it's obvious the stone is something, given the attention it's attracting from the curious nearby ghosts.
