[Eun glances back at the roses with his three words, expression briefly perplexed as she absorbs those three words. If they were an object of some sort, she might think that it was a belonging of his that was returned to him. But these are roses and--

--and they are of his own making. A variety he managed to create himself. Red and vibrant and lovely to behold. She looks back at him, at the stance he takes, and feels something in her stir. A glimpse of who he must have been before he came here. There isn't power in his stance so much as a certain confidence and pride that seems to come to him as easily and naturally as breathing. It is not forced, or feigned.

It's impossible to look away from him until he is all but beside her, and the wolf within stirs at the brush of his hand at her back. Solicitous, and oddly intimate in the same way he holds her hand can be. She follows the movement of his other hand with her eyes as he picks up a cutting, feeling strangely emotional as he relates the history of the flowers. Her voice is a low, warm murmur, gaze centered on the rose.]

You must be so, so pleased to have them with you again, Asil. You can plant them all here and have them with all the others, right?