Her hands are callused and scarred from hard labor, farm work. Honest enough hands. She grasps Paderau's lightly but firmly, letting her get a physical feel before anything else.

Then she shifts her power through her skin, something that's as natural as breathing to her now. Opens her connections, letting the warden decide where to go instead of forcing herself in. Communicating is so much easier for her this way, in direct thought-concepts instead of words or images. She lets them float on the surface, the important ones; how she can feel everything down to the smallest atom, how she's spent lifetimes memorizing the signature of every one. In order to sense them, know them, manipulate them. Skeletal and muscle structures of humans and animals, all preserved in perfect detail in her memory. She focuses on mending, rejoining, nurturing. She's known destruction in the past, and this is so much more worthwhile.

There is a deep sadness there, lying in a layer of ink underneath it all, but she pushes it away gently, as if to say pay it no heed. Not trying to cover it, though, since she has a feeling Paderau of all people should understand it. Longevity always comes with loss, constant and insatiable.