Moss regards the newcomer with good humor, his head tilting slightly to the side as he listens to the unusual lilt. One of Moss' many pleasures is learning the mantra accents of common that span the globe. He is impressed as well by the way that the defuses the violent situation, earning her an instant measure of respect from him.<br/><br/>When Brunhilda arrives to smooth away the last of the conflict, his head swivels toward her, even as he places his weapon back beside him, and resumes the slow consumption of his brightly colored porridge. His response was friendly, if a bit off putting by accident. It quickly becoming clear that he was not a charismatic tortle.<br/><br/>"Oh I'm doing quite well. Your porridge is bland and tasteless, just like my creche mother used to make. Its lack of flavor really brings out the texture of the spoon."<br/><br/>At being addressed by the sorcerer, Moss rises to his feet, and then broadly reached out, his massive form attempting to take her in a large gentle hug. As he does this he speaks, his voice the same soft molasses as before, tinged now with great warmth and affection.<br/><br/>“Well met Rowan. May the grass grow green in your wake, and the fireflies dance in your shadows. Your voice had a soft quality to it that I like. The way you mispronounce words is pleasing to my senses. Are you also a traveler to this island?”<br/><br/>Throughout the questioning, the hug never wavered, remaining a firm friendly embrace, like how one might hug a beloved family member after a long journey. Her senses would be assailed with the scents of forest moss, spring rains, and the rich earthy scent of mushrooms. Overlaid over these scents was another, more sour odor, that a keen observer might identify as strong pipeweed.