Equally surprised by the Quartermaster’s arrival, Ayla snapped her attention to the direction from which he came. Reactively, she clasped her hands over her mouth. She had not realized the volume she had reached with her song and was startled to have found an audience. 

She stood and stepped parallel to the man some few feet away. His initial question confused her a little, but his reiteration and clarifying gesticulations painted a clear picture.

“No treasure, sir.” Ayla considered the second half. She couldn’t say that the Blackthornes had been entirely vicious, even if they weren’t exactly kind. She gnawed her lip in thought.

She proffered her hands and turned to face him. With a tentative step closer to him, she stretched her arms out before her so he could see the lines across her palms. Channeling focus as she had learned from her mother and grandmother, she furrowed her brows at her fingertips which trembled under the observation of this crew member who discerned her secret early, despite her headscarf carefully positioned to conceal her ears. 

A faint energy trickled from her heart, spreading down her arms and pooling in her cupped palms. The most noticeable change would be the waft of salty cool air warming and shifting. Rather than ocean, the aura of a forest after rainfall began to consume the space. Swirling scents of pine and sage emanated from the elf’s shaking hands, highlighted by notes of cedar and fresh-crushed juniper. 

Slowly exhaling, eyes closed, Ayla gently brushed the tips of her fingers against the thumb of their respective limb. As if she were rubbing away the sand or dust from her skin after digging in the dirt, she brought her hands together before her waist and folded them together. Ashamed to have her secret discovered already, and feeling as though she were bound to be held for collection, the healer gazed sadly at her toes. 

“A different treasure,” she admitted, pinching her eyes closed as if bracing for a blow across the cheek, or at least across her hope.