Wild Berry Meadow there to abide with my creator, god,

terich.
flickering grey rain feathered downward from where the delta had curled beneath a berry bush, scarred muzzle across her slim forelegs. the children were old enough now for her to slip away at times; damien especially had taken a vested interested in bonding with the remnants of his brother's bloodties to the wood.
terich.
what had she done?
relmyna did not remember the name he had spoken when he came to find her here, simply that he had. she could not recall the events that led her to be crouched beneath the berry-laden branches, nor what came after — it was merely the muzzy outline of his features that she had suddenly recalled, a glossy, wavering image that had led her to this place.
a deep sigh coursed through the woman; her dark-tipped ears swept back, and she felt herself moving from her flesh, to a plane wherein she could ponder such things free of the weeping that currently threatened her throat.

Her brief trip is turning into something longer, she knows, her mind still lingering on the idea of visiting the cache. Hesitantly her trail dips south from the plains, contemplating. She could return and let Phocion know, cut across the mountains ... that is perhaps the wisest choice, but Poet is nothing if not a little impulsive.

She's drawn by the wildflowers, the explosion of colors. They are not useful to her necessarily (though she scans for certain shapes, marigolds, poppy). They are beautiful. Does she return to Phocion, however briefly and risk...?

Movement and scent pull her thoughts present, catching sight of the woman underneath the berry bushes. Poet hesitates; there is a sadness to the lines of her form that suggests to the ex-priestess she may not want company, but then again, coaxing sorrows is one of her specialities. Taking some gentle steps forward, she chuffs, lowering herself into the flowers to speak better at her level. "Are you alright?" she asks in a subdued voice, ears swept forward and expression calm.

it was in a pained silence that relmyna passed before herself all that she could remember; the intensity of the images, and herself within them, caused her no small amount of fright. it set the addled wolfess' gaze to wild twitching; she shook against the ruination of her mind.
wildbare teeth greeted the approach of the other; a muted growl rose in the scarred throat, but it passed after a moment of warning. the expression of the other was kind, her demeanour comforting in an effortless way. and relmyna, compromised by all she did not know, was caught off guard. 
adopting a more apologetic air, the patchwork wolfess nodded, purling a gentle sound. a paw lifted to her throat; the fact she could not speak should quickly be communicated, lest the other wish to pass on from a mute. and as the moments passed, she studied the face of the other, that such kindness should exist in a stranger.

She stills her movement as the growl reaches her, waits for it to settle and for her issue to become clear. Ah. Is it an irony that she should encounter another mute wolf on her journey? Poet waits another moment still, unsure if the woman will mind her company; when her interest remains, the black-backed sylph lowers herself totally to take a comfortable seat and tilts her head, voice still soft as she speaks. "I've a companion who fell from a mountain recently and cannot speak," she says, "it does not make him less valuable company, however."

Offering a smile, she adds, "I apologise for disturbing you out of the blue... you looked like you might be in pain." Hopefully she will not take offense to Poet's meddling... more hopefully, perhaps Poet can glean some perspective on the cause of her pain, for it is in meddling that she finds some satisfaction, truth be told.

she was not abandoned; the stranger lowered herself among the fragrance of ripened berries and the care in her movements relaxed relmyna further. while some part of her remained ill at ease, tense, she was largely welcoming now. the loneliness that limned each moment of the aspirant's day was quelled, at least for now. her dark ears swept forward at the other's suggestion, and then back.
a pause; a nod. her mind spiraled with a thousand ways she might seek communcation with her kind companion, but each of them exhausted her even to think about. the world of the patchwork wolfess was one of silence, punctuated only by the whispers of her gods. but yes; pain, pain to be endless from how it felt in her now.

The woman's demeanor relaxes, drawing Poet in further, pleased as always by not being rejected. Perhaps her urge to comfort comes less from a place of selflessness and more from a need to be validated externally through creating dependencies on herself. No, not perhaps: definitely, but know that and doing something to change it are different things.

Besides, she's never lied about being selfish.

The nod conveys very little and yet she thinks she can grasp the edges of what the other is carrying. A small gesture says more than a large one, Poet thinks. But what can she do here to assauge? "If I may," she murmurs, coming carefully closer should the other allow until her paw may seek to rest on top of the other's in a quiet display of solidarity, offering the simple touch of her body as an anchor-point.

ears folded but relmyna did not quail, tensing only momentarily at the warm touch of the other. and as the pressure of the woman's paw settled comfortably atop her own, the she-wolf was displeased to feel an answering break in her heart. the realization that she had not truly been touched by more than her children for some time swept over her, waters flowing through a broken dam upstream. no, she could not — the delta searched the stranger's face for some hint of disgust as sorrow sloughed up from the bedrock of her loneliness, and spilled bitter from her eyes.
shamed, relieved, terrified, relmyna nevertheless kept her paw as it was, trusting in some measure of mercy that the kind woman would not suddenly turn upon her, rip at features vulnerable in their painful contortion. it was a silent weeping, one measured by breaths that shook at their edges; she blinked and could no longer look upon the face of her savior, and at last turned away to lie her muzzle upon the dirt, unable to hold the weight of her own grief, let alone the soft touch of another being.