Her speech was thickly accented, and her sentences as broken as his own, but something in Vyarin's mind clicked as she made those complicated steps in a circle around him. He was to mimic her, it seems. He nodded slowly, observing with his mind's eye how she had done it. Then, briskly and with the solid-footedness of a march, he copied her, whirling until he was almost dizzy.

"Is good, yes?" He asked, in his Apura. She spoke his language, and he would speak hers. Perhaps over time, they would even out with practice. "I to do . . . like you." He did it again, slower this time, lighter on the feet, like the other men would. It was amazingly light-footed this formation, nothing like the strong battle formations of Prozdy. Perhaps it descended from scouting and skirmishing manoeuvres? This land must revere forest rangers in much the same way that the many societies of the League revere heavily armoured foot-warriors. Understandable, perhaps, with the sheer volume of forest he had traveled through in the south. The green stretched for many hundreds of leagues without even a little snow or sand to separate them. 

"Err . . . Now you?" He asked. She had graciously shown him his role, but this sort of thing, by his reckoning, did require a partner to act out. "Thank for you to show me . . . 'walking' of the man. Now you 'walking' of . . ." he drew a complete blank then on the right word to use. ". . . The not-man? Apologies. I am of the forgetting."