Bearclaw Valley oh brother, our blood was so thick
i will pry his bony fingers free
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#1
All Welcome 
AW - set for 3/12.

she returned to the valley much skinnier than she had left the few days prior -- her hips jutting and ribs showing only the thinnest layer of fat strung across them. the snow had halted her progress for days, and then it had flooded -- the plains had been treacherous to navigate, and the slopes icy. she had been relieved to cross the borders and slip into the valley's secluded bosk again, and wondered if @Laurel or @Blondine would have noticed her brief absence.

she made for the caches, digging until she found the last remnants of the pack's moose kill. the girl set in the snow with the frozen limb and gnawed furiously on the icy gristle with ravenous snaps of her jaws.
now the wren has gone to roost and the sky is turning gold,
and like the sky, my soul is also turning.
i'll be damned if i end up playing Job with god's loving hand on my throat
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#2
waves!

Mostly oblivious to the broiling family drama, Poet's contented herself through the chill with Wardruna's den and Sif's company. Something has settled in her chest in a way that has been previously lacking, some sense of self that she'd been working to overcome. But it was silly of her to think she would arrive and shed her former self so completely; there's no need for her to start completely anew. 

So she wakes up, skips any ablutions (the one thing she will not pick up again is any semblance of faith), and takes her time walking the valley, not seeking any company in particular but keeping ears alert nonetheless. Straying by the cache rewards her with Indra's scent, and, thinking of how their conversation had been partially the cause of her current resolve, abruptly switches her pace to join her.

Poet does not draw close, not wishing to interrupt her meal (especially as her eyes draw over the taut lines of her hips, feeling no small flicker of concern), but comes to stand within eyeshot, greeting her with a gentle chuff.
i will pry his bony fingers free
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#3
hiya thanks for joining!

the contorted limb was enough to slake her hunger, at least temporarily. she chewed the gristle from it with low and content growls, though the rumblings ceased as poet pulled into her line of sight. indra paused for a moment, assessing the nature of the woman's approach -- yet it seemed she was respectful of indra's space and indra quickly resumed her meal.

she appreciated that gesture -- too often she felt defensive of her food, and it did her good to consume a meal without worry.

once finished she set a paw upon the bare bones and looked to poet carefully, a tongue drawn across her lips. "feel at home yet?" she asked wryly.
now the wren has gone to roost and the sky is turning gold,
and like the sky, my soul is also turning.
i'll be damned if i end up playing Job with god's loving hand on my throat
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#4


Waiting comes easily to the woman, who sits and patiently leaves Indra to her meal in comfortable silence. Her wait is rewarded: the other girl's question brings a slightly embarrassed smile to her lips, eyes cast to the side demurely. "I do," she admits. "I was overthinking. Thank you for helping me realise that."

More pressingly: "how about you?" the ex-priestess asks gently, trying not to call too much attention to the state that Indra seems to be in (at least physically). Her gaunt figure speaks to something happening. There is not a famine upon them, and in fact, the pack seems capable of supporting several litters (...or if it is not, at the moment things feel peaceful.) Her first meeting with the Redleaf girl had been marked by a trauma, and belatedly Poet wonders at the lingering psychological effects, something she should have paid attention to sooner had she not been working through her own difficulties. At least she can pry a little here in the now, if Indra will indulge her.
i will pry his bony fingers free
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#5
indra's gaze momentarily traced over poet's form; a brief inspection, almost clinical in its quickness -- she looked in decent enough weight, sported no injuries, and the aspect of unease that had shrouded the agouti woman before seemed lifted. she nodded her head in acknowledgement as poet spoke, understanding fully the implications that transpired when one overthought. she was just as guilty of such habits -- something that poet likely would have been able to detect.

it was good, in indra's mind, that poet had found her place here. sometimes all it took for a piece to fall into place was for a pawn to shift, or a friendship to form -- perhaps poet had found her own blondine or laurel, and that served as the tether to keep her thoughts grounded from overwrought flight.

an ear pulled back and betrayed indra's feelings as poet inquired after her; she was used in some ways to deflection, and while she was guilty of indulging in her own over-processing of events, was not the type to freely share the inner workings of her mind with anyone except laurel. she rolled her shoulders and a frown thinned her lips, but she answered in her own way: "laurel is pregnant."

it may not have been a direct answer, but it was an honest one -- and was, by and large, the most troubling thing that occupied indra's thoughts.
now the wren has gone to roost and the sky is turning gold,
and like the sky, my soul is also turning.
i'll be damned if i end up playing Job with god's loving hand on my throat
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#6


If Indra is the type to share, or if she needs a gentle push, Poet can't say, but it is only a beat until her answer comes decisively delivered. She'd suspected one or more of the women in the valley to be carrying pups, that well-known scent lingering in the air. Who, however, she had not tried to discern, being neither a midwife nor carrying children of her own. (She thinks as an aside, perahps she should put effort into gathering more herb for Blondine's sake, given the healer will most likely be attending to midwifely duties.)

The expriestess makes a soft noise of acknowledgement, even as she tilts her head. "You seem unhappy about it," she observes, her tone lilting slightly to leave space for a question. From what she's seen, the sisters seem nigh inseperable; she wonders if the pregnancy has driven a wedge between them. It must have caused something to put Indra in such poor condition, and Poet hopes she can provide some small comfort.
i will pry his bony fingers free
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#7
indra collected her thoughts as she announced laurel's pregnancy, wondering how the woman would take it -- it seemed everyone tended to have a strong opinion on pregnancy one way or the other, and she carefully set poet in her peripherals as she waited the woman's response.

she was only slightly surprised by poet's blunt observation -- perhaps indra had divulged too much in her tone, or perhaps she was not as stoic as she thought -- either way, it was certainly evident in her voice that laurel's pregnancy troubled her. she offered only the briefest of smiles, unsure how to answer -- she was overjoyed laurel was pregnant, but she was terrified for their future, and the puppy's futures.

"i'm happy for her, i am --" she protested, worried poet would think her some horrid wretch for being unhappy her sister was pregnant: "i just.. worry about our future." she bit her lower lip and added in bitter afterthought: "they'll grow up to be just like us."
now the wren has gone to roost and the sky is turning gold,
and like the sky, my soul is also turning.
i'll be damned if i end up playing Job with god's loving hand on my throat
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#8


Without context, and without knowing Indra well, Poet might have guessed at some jealousy, or fear of losing Laurel's attention, either to child or to the man that beget them. Yet Indra speaks to something else, offering the ex-priestess a chance to glean some more of Indra's inner world. "Like you?" She can't help but repeat, eyes widening slightly at the admission. After a beat, she thinks she maybe understands (or at least, can relate to the sentiment: would a child of hers grow up as volatile and bitter as she'd been?) Still, it's a thread she needs to pluck at, so she comes a step closer. "What do you imagine the future holds for them?" She asks softly, curious to hear the answer.
i will pry his bony fingers free
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#9
in hindsight, indra regretted being so transparent with what grieved her -- but perhaps, it was for the best. she often appreciated those that exposed themselves clearly, and if she was honest, in a way it felt as if a burden was lifted as she confided in poet. perhaps the priestess would find her childish, or her fears immature -- but indra had seen some of her worst fears realized in her short life, and wanted nothing of that for laurel's children.

"like us." she reiterated, her gaze trailing the ground -- how to explain to poet in a few short words what it felt like to be bastard, unwanted children? to be shuttled callously from hand to hand, to be under both parent's shadows tantalizingly close to absolvement, to validation -- only to find that love was never there, or that they were never truly wanted?

or to watch, wide-eyed, as their lives came crashing down before them and their idols toppled -- to watch their father with another woman, their mother with another man -- both hateful, spiteful, beings who drove more passion in their hearts for the hatred of their spouses than love they ever spared for their children?

she leveled a heavy sigh and a thin smile pressed her lips. it was without warmth. "without a real family." indra would do her best to see to it the children never wanted -- but what if they wanted a father? she couldn't provide that.
now the wren has gone to roost and the sky is turning gold,
and like the sky, my soul is also turning.
i'll be damned if i end up playing Job with god's loving hand on my throat
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#10

 She still does not know the exact meaning of Indra's phrase, yet she does not try to pull forth more than what she is given. 'Without a real family' is indicative enough. Poet hums, looking for the words she wants to say. Family is not something familiar to her, either, but growing up she was surrounded by love all the same. 

After a moment she says, "they will have you." The words are decisive, even as she pauses, trying to string together her thoughts. "They will construct a family for themselves, or you and Laurel will construct it for them, and it will be all the stronger for it was chosen." She cannot imagine any child of Laurel's growing up feeling unwanted, so long as they have Laurel and Indra's love for them, and love for each other. And she thinks of the rest of the pack, too, and their bonds: Blondine, surely, if no one else. 

"But," Poet sighs, hesitant, "I understand your fears to a degree. I never knew my parents, and though my childhood was spent with love, it is ... difficult, to feel that seperation from blood." If that's what Indra is talking about at all; she's volunteered no information about the father and Poet does not intend to press for it.
i will pry his bony fingers free
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#11
indra's ears, while splayed to the side in dejection, subtly strained for poet's answer. the priestess hummed, as if giving great consideration to the words she was about to commit to the audible world. indra marveled then at the command the woman had on the world and its realities -- and how firmly, convincingly she spoke of something that had yet to be.

it was a small comfort to indra to listen to the agouti priestess' articulate vision; they could make their own family - they could beat this. indra was reminded that this was not the most harrowing her life had been; surely, the road ahead would not be as perilous as the twisted path she had left behind her.

she was appreciative of poet's insights - it was a rare glimpse into another's candid life experience. when poet then expanded she shared a similar grief, indra's woeful expression seemed to soften into apologetic sadness. "i'm sorry." she said -- for both poet's lack of parents, and for her own pity-party. "so you know then." she confirmed with a finality, a nod of her muzzle given in understanding. she didn't need to explain any further, having found strange kinship in the woman by virtue of the very thing that had cleaved her life in two. "thank you."
now the wren has gone to roost and the sky is turning gold,
and like the sky, my soul is also turning.
i'll be damned if i end up playing Job with god's loving hand on my throat
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#12


She can't help but hold her breath, worried her words will land flat and make the dejected woman's mood worse. When Indra's expression softens, a soft exhale escapes Poet to match, her lips turning upward in a slow smile. "You needn't apologise," she says quickly, feeling slightly embarrassed by both the vulnerability she's shown and the way the conversation has temporarily tipped onto her, "but yes, I believe so." 

Her tail sways in a brief but languid arc. She wouldn't say Indra looks... better, but perhaps it is a start. At least she hopes she's offered some small comforts to the girl, if not just for her sake, than Laurel's. Thinking of the short-tempered woman, she can't help but wonder how she's taken to pregnancy. Poet hesitates before voicing her concern. "How is Laurel feeling?" She inquires gently;  her suspicion is that Indra will prefer to speak on her sister instead of her, but if that's not the case, she certainly won't push the girl for information.
i will pry his bony fingers free
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#13
the slimmest of smiles briefly appeared on indra's muzzle, a place usually reserved for grim or sorrowful expressions. that poet, in some way, understood her unkind upbringing or lonely sadness -- well, there was no deeper community than that of grief.

at the mention of laurel that smile faded, replaced by a distant look in her amber eyes. "she's feeling alone, and rejected." indra answered honestly -- for what reason did the girl have to llie? that was simply what it was.

a heavy thing to leave poet with, surely -- but indra was already rising to leave. she appreciated the priestess for the kindness she had spared indra for both healing her wounds and in a way, healing her worried thoughts -- for that, she would think upon poet kindly.
now the wren has gone to roost and the sky is turning gold,
and like the sky, my soul is also turning.
i'll be damned if i end up playing Job with god's loving hand on my throat
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#14


Poet only nods, expression softening. She is not close enough to Laurel, she thinks, to try and offer her comfort... it might come off as condescending or strange. Indra's departure is not met with any protest from the ex-priestess, who merely watches, murmuring a soft good-by to follow her before making her own leave.