A snort of laughter. "I suppose on that I should take your word."

"I have nothing more than my word, so I suppose you must!" Zveran grins.

"Perhaps I shall see the evidence."

That makes Zveran somewhat sad, though he hides it well. "I suppose you will."

Zveran looks at the edge of the bank. "We should set up camp."

"Mm," Masque agrees, and sets about doing so.

Zveran wades back to shore, and helps Masque while also avoids getting them wet.

They move easily enough around them, and get a fire set up fairly quickly.

Zveran, once slightly drier, re-dresses and starts on making food. "Once we cross over, we will have access to better food. Campfire stuff is all right, but always tastes slightly of smoke."

Masque shrugs. "Food is food."

"No, there you are wrong, dear Masque. Sometimes food is a religious experience. The Al Bhed do amazing things with spices, and the Guado? Oh, the ways they remake a simple mushroom, I would give up Yevon for such delights."

"Perhaps," Masque sounds almost amused. "But at the end of the day, food is sustenance."

Zveran is silent for a long moment. "Oh, Masque. I hope you continue journeying with me so I can show you how wrong that is."

He sounds almost gleeful at the idea.

"We'll see."

"Will we?" Zveran tries to chide himself not to get attached, but the idea of showing Masque the better things in life was invigorating. 

"Yes. We will."

Zveran finds himself somewhat speechless at that. Are they considering actually staying? 

He shakes off his uncharacteristic quiet, going back to cooking. He rattles off the history of the Moonflow, free hand gesticulating as he does so. 

Masque listens quietly, watching both Zveran and the Moonflow.

It’s a lovely, peaceful night. Even fiends seem to know not to disturb the gentleness of the river. 

Zveran realises after a time that he had stopped talking to join Masque in admiring the Moonflow, and a small part of his brain wondered what Masque would look like under the...well, mask. 

Masque doesn't seem inclined to break the silence. Or take the mask off to let Zveran know the answer to that question.

"Right!" Zveran says suddenly, tugging a book from his pack. "Poetry."

Head tilt, eyebrow.

"I said I would provide you with something adventurous. I believe I have something suitable, give me a moment."

He flips through the book with single minded determination. "Ah-ha!" He exclaims, slapping a hand down on a page. "Here we are. The First Summoning. Adventure, tragic romance, a bitter war, everything a good poem needs."

"Sure," Masque shrugs.

With that enthusiastic response, Zveran smirks, and then starts reading. 

A calm settles over him, noticeably. This is clearly a realm he loves.

They listen, and watch. There's a faintly indulgent smile, a contentness.