To her companions, Emra was known to be ruled by rancour and to wield her froideur as she would the steel on her back. It was quite obvious she had not chosen the life of the Grey Wardens willingly; she shared not her tales, and her brother knew better than to dispel the mystery. She did not want their pity, and she expected none of it. It could only come as a surprise, then, to witness their stone-hearted commander greet a stranger with care --- even the strain in her shoulders dissipated once she heard familiar words of welcome, her pointed ears quirking up attentively. The vernacular was not lost to her, and she yet whispered ancient tones into her brother's ear, but to hear another's voice ring so clearly was music to her ears.
Evidently, she'd looked forward to this meeting. If she were to war against the creatures that festered the Earth, she would rather not be alone in a throng of shem’len. She was admittedly grateful that her clan had long gone North --- Tamlen's ghost rankled her like a thorn to her side, and she feared his shape would only cling to the cracks left between her clanmates.
"Hahren," she greeted him respectfully, the gruff voice that accompanied her broken Common replaced with a smoother, less grating timbre. "I thank you for your welcome. I come on behalf of the Grey Wardens." It wasn’t necessarily out of pettiness that she chose to exclude her companions by opting for her mother tongue, though perhaps the uneasiness could be felt all the same. "Though I fear you have greater problems." She remarks with concern, having been ambushed by the werewolves that stalked the forests prior to entering their camp.
Following her travels, one might not consider her the helpful sort --- why risk her neck for those who would sooner have her hung, her ears carved, her kind herded and butchered like cattle --- but she had been hunter to her clan, a protector, and her instinct rose within her naturally in the presence of her kin.
