Deepwood Weald Black-eyed Susan

The forest was rather like a dream she'd once had, though Reverie could hardly recall the details. Something about the ghostly cast of the light, she thought, winding idly between the thin trees. She'd departed the Bay not so long ago, certain that Lestan would assume she had gone for a hunt — and she likely would hunt before her return, if only to have something to show for the trip.
Right now, she only wanted to breathe; the air of their den was suffocatingly heavy with grief of late. Reverie did not hold it against Lestan. She remembered well what it had been like for her, after the fire, and quietly admired his strength for not falling quite as far as she had. It would pass in time, she hoped. Even if it did not, she would be at his side through it all.
But she felt very alone, and she didn't know how to cope with that feeling. Even admitting it to herself was painful, but it was a desire for real companionship that brought her out of the Bay this time. Any sort of companionship, really. Reverie didn't think she would find it in this eerie forest, but that wouldn't stop her from searching.

slams wren against the wall so hard she flattens like a pancake. also going to propose dating this for the 4th if that works for u?

She hadn't intended to go so far West, after having met with Marcus. But the thought of returning home while the last few waves of her season crashed, while his scent still clung to her, with the possibility of— no, no, that just wasn't right. 
And so she continued, nowhere in particular, tens of miles a day. The flatlands seemed to go on forever this far from the valley, and only rarely did they give way to proper tree coverage. It was odd, having chosen to travel when the point of joining a pack was so that she would not have to anymore. 
But nature made its own decisions, she supposed!

She had, at some point, crossed over into the weald. Tendrils of ferns cling to heavy trees, a soft carpet of moss beneath her. At least it was a shift in the monotony. Worn down was an understatement, and yet she could not bring herself to slow down. Just keep walking, just keep walking. 

Sounds great <3 Note to self, this is gonna be after the mushroom date thread in Rev's timeline Scratch that, change of plans

The scent of the woman reached Reverie before any other part of her presence. She stiffened immediately, thinking of Lestan first, wanting to go to him and ensure he did not find his way near such temptation. Those thoughts were quickly washed away in something she did not think to account for:
Her own temptation.
All of the tension melted from her within moments, and she slipped between the trees in pursuit of the source of that wonderful scent. She glimpsed a pale woman between the dark trunks, tall. As she came closer Reverie found herself turning shy. Her tail swayed behind her, but she made no attempt at greeting, suddenly not trusting herself with even the slightest vocalization. Her ears twitched questioningly in all directions as she slowed to a stop, testing the reaction to her presence.

GAY PEOPLE

Wren was not alone. She never really was, she'd begun to learn.
And as she traverses the weald, she's quick to figure out who exactly it is that lingers. A woman, soft and painted in shimmering gold, perhaps a little younger. Curious eyes are staring back at her, as if the stranger was hoping Wren would make the first move.
Oh, hi, is her greeting, a raspy quality to it as she draws closer. She mirrors her in unspoken word, a loose gait and a tail that hangs low. are you, um, lost or somethin'? 
Something about her feels familiar, yet she cannot place exactly what it is. Nostrils flare and scent is explored. A woman of brine and oakmoss, but there is a trace of musky-sweet pine that reminds her of home. She doesn't mention it, but an eyebrow is quirked. Should I know who you are?

Lost? Yes, lost, always lost; she thought of Lestan, but only for a moment. He was not here, with her. Reverie offered a smile for the woman who was, and shook her head, stepping forward to close the last of the distance between them.
There was something intoxicating about being near to her. For the first time Reverie had found a feeling worth comparing to her experiences with Lestan, and she thought that it must be magic. Something like the blooming of a flower or the motion of the sea, inexplicable and wonderful. Feeling bolder than she had in a long time, Reverie drifted as close as she was allowed, seeking now to draw her muzzle alongside the other woman's and press her nose into her cheek.

To say Wren was taken aback would be to put it way too lightly. An awfully forward gesture from the small sunflower woman, one she wasn't entirely sure what to do with, but not an unwelcome one. 
Her surprise comes out in the form of laughter and a swivel of her ears, but she doesn't move away. She is simply still, a boiling heat rushing to her head and a dusty rose painting her cheeks. Okay, not lost, got it, she whispers, her nose finding a way to the nape of the strange girl's neck, then gently pressed against her shoulder. 
Suddenly, she feels a little bit like she is about to suffocate. Men were suave enough to lay down this much attention within minutes, and it was expected, but women? Without putting too much distance between them, Wren peels away just enough to catch a good look at the girl's face. She is undeniably pretty, which causes the larger woman's intestines to twist into a knot. Wh-- uh, who are you, again? I don't think I heard yah. 

She responded, and — oh! Reverie could have cried; she'd all but forgotten what it was like to feel wanted. The feeling was something like relief, like the vanishing of a pain lived with for so long that it was faded into the background, and only its absence highlighted the effect it'd had all along.
Then the woman pulled away and met her with dark, questioning eyes. Reverie let out a breath, and after a moment, murmured, Reverie, Then she reached for her again, this time to preen along her neck; she wasn't interested in getting to know her. She was beautiful, but Reverie couldn't exactly bring her home. Lestan didn't take notice of much lately, but she was certain he would notice that.

Reverie. Wren mouths it back to her, letting the syllables swirl around on her tongue like a fine wine. 
Wren herself was more of a rot-gut whiskey, a moonshine made with worn, calloused hands on the side of a mountain. A poison that you know is poison, and yet you taste it anyway, perhaps with the hope it'll kill you. 
Perhaps a week or even a few days ago, Wren would have been all the more openly receptive, but the nervousness was starting to lash and bite at her. Reverie, she says it aloud this time, a throaty whisper that speaks of teenage inexperience. look, it's-- uh, you're very pretty, I just-- had she the ability to, she would be sweating bullets. I've never done this with a woman before? So, uh, can we-- talk? First? 

I'm working on a better system for translations right now so I'm just gonna..italicize...

Reverie blinked, drew back, softening as she took in these words. She was nervous. Somehow that was what broke the spell over Reverie; she abruptly felt as if she might vomit. What am I doing?
You won't understand, She managed in the language of songs, a touch mournful. Reverie took a step back, her mind's eye suddenly stuck on Lestan's features. His hollow, endless stare. The utter lack of warmth. There was warmth here, but it didn't belong to her, and never would. The life she'd chosen was waiting for her back at Stavanger Bay, pale and cold and so very still. What was she doing here?

Apparently, Wren had made a mistake. The woman who had approached her was now gone, and in her place was a fearful, shaken soul. She says something in a language Wren does not understand, but she acts as if she does anyway.
Hey, wait, you're alright, is her feeble attempt at making a connection. She doesn't touch her again, but she reaches forward. it's okay. Is something wrong? 
When she looks into the eyes of the young girl, she feels mirrored. The quiver to her lip and the wide blank stare are familiar in a way that sends a chill that reaches the small of her back. 
Reverie has been through something.
You're okay, She says it again. Wren surprises even herself with the smoothness of her voice, her feather-light tone. are you in danger?

Reverie felt helpless; exposed. This was not what she'd intended at all, but like so many others, the dark-eyed woman looked at her and saw something broken. Someone in need of help.
Was that really what she was?
She shook her head, but simultaneously burst into tears. She was not in danger, but constantly felt somehow as if she was; as if she teetered dangerously at something like a cliff's edge, coasting on a high but always with the threat of that sudden fall. It felt like she was falling now. Reverie thought again of her husband, and was filled with self-loathing. She took several steps back, dizzy now, then abruptly turned and bolted through the trees. She felt like a child all over again, and any notion of being desirable was chased from her mind.

This strange girl known as Reverie was apparently full of surprises. The reaction in the form of tears causes Wren to reach for her once more with parted lips and open arms, but before she could touch her, the golden child had already disappeared. 
Perhaps she should have turned and left after that, decidedly make it not her business. But the unsettling tugging feeling at her heart and the cold drop in her stomach tells her otherwise. So she follows. 
Wren was, decidedly, terrible at two things: flirting and comforting others. Connection was not something that came naturally to her. But here she was anyway, shouting for the daydreamer with a flagged tail and ears that fold backward. She had to fix this, somehow, lest it haunt her forever. 

I'm sorry, her words bounce and echo off of the trees that surround her. Reverie is nowhere to be seen, but her scent is everywhere. can you please just talk to me? I-- I just wanted to-- goddammit. 

The voice through the trees halted her, but Reverie couldn't bring herself to turn back. Her heart was racing in her throat, and she couldn't seem to catch her breath; how could she face her like this? Instead she sank haltingly to the ground, somewhere just out of sight, and trembled there for some time. It felt like forever.
Eventually, if the pale-furred wolf made no appearance, Reverie would find the resolve to truly flee. It was just too much. The scent, the stress, the ever-mounting feeling of isolation. Panic ruled her now, and it would only build over the coming hours.

Wren was no longer sure just how long she'd spent chasing her, and at this point, the realization that there was no getting through to her had worked its way into her mind. She hated that she knew what it was like; that tunnel vision. 

She'd found the daydream crumpled beneath an aspen, shielding herself with her own body. Wren wonders if that was how the world saw her when she was a child in New Bayridge, a pale bundle of fear and anger. Everything and nothing all at once, the shaking fist hanging over her head, the fear of God. 
She stays back, decidedly, hovering from afar as if Reverie may shatter if she got closer. My name is Wren. I live in, uhm, the Valley, if you ever want to-- talk. To someone. 
And with that, she turns around and starts her journey home. Perhaps she would go to Riverclan, with the memory of the sunflower girl now leaving a thorn in her side. She wouldn't be forgotten; maybe sought after, but never chased.