Stone Circle the sky is bruised purple like wine

Addie? Adeline? Wardruna’s ears perked forth as Valette came upon the scene with haste but he looked with sharpened surprise to his chosen, the one whom had told him that she bore no name. He does not bother to hide his surprise using it to mask the sudden swell of annoyance he feels seething like lava beneath his skin in his chest. It doesn’t necessarily bother him that she’s potentially lied to him but he does not like the withholding of information. It makes sense, suddenly, her fidgety nature the closer they got to Easthollow. Perhaps she was nervous that she would lose, perhaps, Wardruna thinks it was because she knew she might lose. She could have told him, but he takes a deep breath to remind himself that it doesn’t matter. This might just work in his overall advantage and his anger that had so violently bubbled to linger just beneath the surface of his skin ebbs away to calmness once more. Perhaps even a subtle and underlining sense of smugness though the northerner is careful to keep his expression under his meticulous control. They would be discussing this later, he and her, though he supposes he should be thanking her for not speaking up, for letting him guide her forth in his ignorance of her potential connections to Easthollow. Yet, he’s not out of the danger zone yet. Her potential connection could help it but it could also doom him. Wardruna could only hope that Noma does not tattle on him. He’ll have to keep a close eye on her, if Valette takes her into their fold because though he wants to trust their deal he doesn’t. Not truly.

“In the surrounding territory,” Wardruna gestures in Lost Creek Hollow’s general direction with his muzzle. “I was watching a herd when I ah…ran? into her.” His translation is a bit off, he notes with a sour taste in his mouth but there’s little to be done about it. It’s true that she wasn’t exactly what he’d intended to bring back to Easthollow when he’d set out earlier that day but he figures he’s gotten a boon from his gods and who is he to complain? It was simply poor luck for Noma that she happened to be lovely and weakened: ideal in thralls. Wardruna has done a lot of speaking in common and his tongue feels heavy. He scrapes it against the roof of his mouth wishing that he could stumble across someone who spoke his mother tongue so he did not have to force out the ugly and heavy words of the common language. “She told me she has no name so I call her Noma,” Wardruna explains and steps forward, tail lowered and head bowed in submission to his leader. “She needs care. Food and water and maybe a heilari, ah a...healer? I will nurse her back to health.” Wardruna promises though is not sure how much his word is worth given his newness to the pack. Still, he tries.