The images were unfocused at first: moss, stone, running water, a briskness to the air.

But the scene began to resolve itself quickly. Teige was not as immediately readable as Hawk, but neither did he hide too much of himself.

A glacial landscape in miniature: lichens and vivid mosses dotted the unhewn surface of the rocks. Clear and cold water welled up laughingly from some crevice, and trickled away to somewhere else. A hint of spring hung in the bitingly brisk air, like a smile after some sly joke has been told. And, on closer inspection, ice: a thin film that did not stop the water or stunt the moss.

Numair was interpreting all this silently before he even realized he was doing it:

The rocks: He is stubborn, or set in his ways, or quite down-to-earth, or maybe just makes his mind up very strongly.

The moss: A liveliness, maybe. Or hardiness, or growth, or adaptability. It's quite pleasant.

Together: The moss offsets the rock surface. Perhaps his stubbornness or what-have-you is tempered by a good nature.

The water: The coldness is refreshing. The sound is cheerful. He has a good sense of humor.

The ice: I'm not sure what the ice means. Is it melting, or freezing?

--and then he instantly felt somewhat ashamed. He didn't need to evaluate Teige as though he were a potential enemy like this. It was necessary for the Cynn, but not here, for Mari. Besides, it was a pleasant scene.

The moment passed, and the images blurred back into the occasional intrusion of color, though the sensation of cold persisted somewhere in his teeth.

That bit is to do with the Cynn, he guessed. It was usually whatever bit lingered with him, or popped out at him unprompted. It certainly wasn't the worst reaction he'd ever gotten, not by far, but it was just uncomfortable enough to be noticeable. As if I'd eaten something frozen too quickly, he mused.