Word Count: 446
Shrugging off the compliment she was given on her name, Agony instead focused on the name she was given for this oddly colored woman. "Axelle," She nearly whispered, testing the name. She liked the sound of it on her tongue, but didn't comment further on it. Maybe some other day she would ask if it meant anything, or was a family name. She'd heard of others who passed down names through generations, or as a credit to someone they looked like who wasn't immediate family. A foreigner to substances other than food, water, and material possessions, she couldn't say what this woman was acting like other than friendly. Blinking harshly at the apology, the urge to wave it away with a blase wave of her hand surfaced, but remained unrecognized. "You don't have to be sorry," It was a mistake, and she was not a perfect child. Agony could forgive that without being asked to.
As if trying to discern why she thought they'd been related, Axelle tried to justify it in their appearance, but then took it back. No, she didn't look anything like Naniko. The orange eyed girl's previous look of dissatisfaction began to fade into neutrality. "I look like myself," A simple enough comment, and the truth. Maybe there was someone out there that she did resemble, but Naniko wasn't the one. It pleased her to know this. "Do you look like anyone you know?" Because she didn't look like anyone Agony knew. Maybe Scorpius with his bone mask, but that was about it. No, she knew no one else who looked like Axelle. Had the teenager rephrased it, she could have sound poetic or philosophical. She didn't believe in learning to read or write anyway, so she didn't care.
Rum, what was that? More importantly, was it good? Handed the recipe, she glanced down to the jumbled letters and symbols that, all by themselves, sort of resembled the runes she'd received as a gift at her ceremony, but together meant absolutely nothing. Handing it back, she inhaled abruptly. "I don't know what a Black Beard is, and I can't read," Frowning, she considered this. Maybe reading was worth more in this world than she thought. If you could make food with words, it couldn't be all bad. Watching as the fermenter and grate were moved unceremoniously to their various positions, the question of whether she would help would have gone completely unnoticed if it hadn't been for the sudden stillness. "Why?" Was her response, but she took the opposite handle anyway. Someone going to her father and telling him she'd been rude was a worse fate than taking time to help. Disappointment was failure.
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