It's funny, how you can lose a language for two decades, and yet in a single moment react as though no time has passed at all. "Hyvää iltaa."

Good evening.

It's several seconds before Dain's conscious mind catches up with his habitual greeting, and he stops, and he stares. If he'd had time to think, he might have pretended not to understand -- but no, he can tell his emotions wouldn't have let him. He's quite paralysed with them.

"Who are you?" he manages to ask, his tongue easily switched back to Glennich, unwrapping his headscarf so he can get a better look. The stranger -- no, not a stranger, he wouldn't be a stranger even if Dain had somehow missed the pang of familiarity in his chest. "... Tuo?"