When her tentacles touch down on the sand, Pyrrha focuses her attention inward. There's no fine tuned biological control, the way Mercymorn might have. No, it's far simpler and tied into intentions. Pyrrha, again, is walking out of the ocean. So she walks, awkwardly and ungainly at first. Her mind's conception of walking doesn't quite match what tentacles are able to do. They gather together, knitting into the limbs people expect a person generally to have. Two legs covered in hair not suckers.

Her smile is Duty's smile, the name she gave, even if she is Pyrrha, not Duty, in the moment. The habit's ingrained too long to veer away from. Slight though it may be, it carries that excitement seriously. "It is," Pyrrha agrees. Every time it remains the wonder and marvel it was the first night. "You were good," she compliments.