"It's...Drakonis now, I arrived at the end of Harvestmere," she murmurs that quietly to herself as she works it back in her head because she doesn't like to think about it precisely though she probably could, if asked, work it out quicker. Had once been able to tell you the number of days. "Almost eighteen months. Give or take. I have to add in the confusion of it being summer where I was and it being much later in the season here when I arrived. And you?"

"Someone told me once, many many months ago something that made sense; it only took the Herald to seal rifts but it takes several of us." Normally able to recall a face or clothes, how they hold themselves, Araceli finds her mind slipping past the details. "There are more pieces of the mark and that the song is scattered that's all I can recall." That more doesn't surface troubles her even months later.

It doesn't help with her trying to wave away the subject, wondering if she'd slipped and if so where. Had she become too comfortable? "No. It isn't a thing I hear a person say about me but most of my friends do not care for politics in the first place. Others think you're too ignorant just from a glance." People see what they want to see, it works plenty of ways.