Simple. That was the word Salvia would have used. She was a simple creature herself, albeit it one tempered by trials of a world that lived with rigid discipline. Between the tri-fold crux of supreme secrecy, a devotion to gods of war and blood, and the unbending will of her Uncle, Salvia fell back to what she trusted. Simple things were easy—and she found that the law of this was infallible.
Yet simple as she was, Salvia looked at things in both the large and the small. Her mind was above-average, as if she had taken her brother’s intelligence in the womb, and she observed with the kind of unromantic (and indeed, cold natured) distance that came with one who does not love their work but instead has accepted it without any resentment or need to prove themselves. Power proved this. The blonde woman would function in this manner because it was easier. She could not be hurt if she felt nothing.
“My uncle is the one who founded this rite,” she explained, and extended her arm. It was thicker than Myrika’s, and in her subtle way, the handshake was a test. Salvia’s grip was firm and tight, and she was eager to see how the coyote would respond to such pressure. “But maybe when I return I’ll speak with your Ithiel,” the girl offered, testing the name and sensing it was archaic like the book described.