[ Pulling herself out of the muck in the middle of Solvunn - she does in fact feel that rush of warmth. Whether he intends it or not, it provides her just enough feeling back into her fingers as she roughly tugs her lost boot out of the mud. Though faint, she sends a faint caress, a brush of fingertips against the feeling that she hopes will feel akin to her brushing her fingers against his cheek. ]

𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺. 𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘤. 𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 - 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘥𝘦?

[ Said as if they aren't all prone to dramatic tendencies to varying degrees (and said as if she isn't the one who is being the Most Dramatic of them all. ]

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘰'𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘐 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱?