Nill has been staring intently at her own hand, turning it slightly, studying the absence of her pinkie with quiet focus. She silently questions what she’s made of, until Storm suddenly shifts beneath her. She grips tighter to the draconian’s shoulder, glancing up to follow her attention.

The moment the faerie drops to the floor and begins doing pushups, Nill slips down from Storm’s back with a light, careful hop. She circles around until she stands just in front of him, looking down with the same unblinking stare she’d given her hand.

She watches him for several long seconds, head tilting a fraction as her thoughts piece themselves together.

When she finally speaks, she gives a small, certain nod and glances back at Storm.

“He is being Unchosen.”

Then she turns back to him, extending a finger to point off to the side.

“Around the corner is being wall,” she states, monotone. “Obvious.”

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