[ Most of his words mean nothing to her. She's never strayed far enough from her stream to witness a rowdy gathering like he's describing. But eventually, she understands. Her eyebrows raise and she giggles. ]
Like the Men who come to drink!
[ The ones on wobbly feet who crash through the bushes to stand in the shade of the trees and relieve themselves in her waters. She does not like those men. Frowning she shakes her head. ]
No, not like that at all. [ The flowers are good, and happy, and make her feel warm inside, like the warmth of the faun at her side. He really should smell them, then he would understand. ]
You smell them. They smell good. [ He may hold his bushel far from his nose, but she brings her single flower up to her face and sniffs deeply of its aroma again. ]
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Like the Men who come to drink!
[ The ones on wobbly feet who crash through the bushes to stand in the shade of the trees and relieve themselves in her waters. She does not like those men. Frowning she shakes her head. ]
No, not like that at all. [ The flowers are good, and happy, and make her feel warm inside, like the warmth of the faun at her side. He really should smell them, then he would understand. ]
You smell them. They smell good. [ He may hold his bushel far from his nose, but she brings her single flower up to her face and sniffs deeply of its aroma again. ]