If Toho had tried to explain what he was, he would of surely driven Damita out of the tent; she could take little more stress without simply breaking down. The show of tears earlier had mortified her, the fact that Toho had seen her was even worse – Her Mama had always said to save such emotions for private, although it was hard to find somewhere private when you weren’t really trusted and in a new area.<br/><br/>Damita moved then, scooting closer so that she was sitting in front of Toho, watching him. She was trying to distract herself, fingers picking at threads on the hem of her skirt. Lips quirked in a small smile as he bowed his head, a delicate brow arching as he pronounced his name; well, that wasn’t /that/ hard to say. “Tohopka,” She imitated, saying it like he’d pronounced it, the saying of the name made easier with her own accent. “English is a dead, heartless language. It has no feeling.” Damita murmured, “I am not English, I am Spanish.” A pause, “And, I am tired.”<br/>