Otter Creek she was poetry in a world

forward dated a few days

praimfaya follows the flow of icemelt from the caps of sawtooth where it flows into otter creek. she needs the stretch of her legs; disliking the uncertainty that she feels bubbling in her chest. she knows who she is and she knows what she is; these things are not the issue. she feels an uncertainty in regards to the leadership of sagtannet. wylla's dismissal of stryx at their borders — while praimfaya could understand the lack of respect towards a leader was a thorn in one's side, the wanheda couldn't help but feel like it was a slap in her face all the same; as if her life wasn't worth much to the female eisen. perhaps it wasn't. intended or not it seethes like a festering wound left unchecked.

and mahler, though praimfaya genuinely liked him, well, she felt that his main concern was finding thade. which, is natural as a father but praimfaya also knew all could not be sacrificed for one.

as she pauses at the bank of the creek where it slows from it's descent from the spire, she shakes such treasonous thoughts away. she is jumping to conclusions, she knows, and reasons that she must be patient, must wait things out before making rash decisions. she bows her head and laps at the cool, refreshing water, scowling up at the grey sky as it begins to drizzle.

the canyon is striking in an otherworldly, foreign way, and yet the warlord longs still for something besides red rock and sand, small sinew reptiles and sand betwixt her teeth. and so she's crested the edge of redsand early that morning, cutting south-east and into the vague familiarity there. she skirts the northern edge of the wood, lacking any real desire to enter that ever-familiar treeline. ever since she'd returned, the secrets and memories there had first seemed faded, mundane; but since the fever something different tugs at the edges of her memories. 

rain begins to fall as she trails a semi-familiar creek, just as a smoke-etched figure looms ahead. her mind returns immediately to the dream that seemed so far removed and yet etched into memory, and her auds press forward. but this is a very different face than the one her minds jumps to, and any tension laced betwixt her shoulderblades eases. "praimfaya," greets the warlord, flicker of gladness at this interruption of her solitude. 

"have you found the boy you sought?" she'd not been having much success in her task last they'd met, though weeks had passed in a messy blur of days and hours since. still, she'd not known any success to come from chasing myths, as the commander had described him.

praimfaya.

her name drifts to her from a voice that over the months they've known each other, though their meetings have been few and far between, has become familiar.

praimfaya's head lifts from the gurgling creek, the trickle of water smoothing away stone: peaceful and destructive all the same. her salmon pink tongue draws across her jowls to catch stray droplets as she turns, leisurely, to face the warlord. hela — the wanheda greets the woman in return only to feel her next words reach 'round her throat like jaws; clamping. hela ... hela smells as renard does: of the saints.

all at once there is a measurable rush of feelings: anger, betrayal ( again, why praimfaya will never know, it's not as if these wolves owed her anything ), and perhaps most strangely of all envy. what was it about donovan that drew hela in? praimfaya lets out a soft breath of air, ears thrusting forth atop her skull at hela's question. no. my mission was a failure. not that praimfaya was very surprised; still it stings all the same.

the question nags at her, itches like an itch that cannot be scratched until she blurts, what is it about donovan that draws people in? for she is both a bit genuinely curious and wondering if she's been going about jus drein, jus daun all wrong. i know you're with the saints. she supplies in explanation and struggles for a moment, putting her words together in her head before offering, softer yet, what does he offer?

the commander shifts, barely perceptibly does she register the woman's changing emotions. her answer comes then, one that is not a surprise. "I am sorry," she offers; the boy is in all likelihood dead, or made into something other than what he had been by whatever or whoever might have decided to take him in, as had occurred with her. still, to fail in one's duty stings, she knows, and she would not wish it on the silverlit. 

the warlord steps near, stilling again as the commander probes. her question is not expected, though one she'd been considering herself. donovan's ranks grow steadily, even as the list of his enemies does too. she'd liken him to a magnet, one that sought to attract and repel with equal effectiveness. "each of his wolves would have some different answer," she supplies; she does not know those who have fallen in line behind the man well enough to do more than guess at their reason for doing so, but thus far they have been varied. 

"I am injured, he offers a place to heal." it is the simple answer, a fairly direct summary of what had occurred. but she cannot content herself with offering only this, somehow, the woman prompts her to offer more. "besides that, he and his are — interesting. interesting has always served me better than routine." since she'd fled the woods life had been comprised of struggling to live, to learn, to adapt and lead stitched together with a few shreds of stillness and complacency.

hela supplies that each would have a different answer and offers that she is injured and he offers her a place to heal. praimfaya's lips tug into a pensive line; terse. frostbound gaze studies hela and then glimpses beyond her to the rising sunspire as she contemplates the warlord's further words. interesting. interesting, praimfaya repeats. you are the second i know that has joined them, third if you count donovan. i sparred with him once, genuinely liked him for the most part; and a second time when he intercepted a fight between nemisis and me. praimfaya supplies gesturing to her newest collection of scars. i heard she is gone.

her frostbound gaze returns to hela. i have not been shy about my displeasure of the saints' presence in the sunspire, praimfaya admits with an unapologetic and lofty shrug. i am territorial by nature. she offers in explanation. after a few seconds she breaks her silence once more, i... have my doubts about sagtannet and the capabilities of it's leadership. it was truth enough; she was annoyed at wylla for dismissing the woman that had saved her life and she was worried about mahler's priorities. interesting how? she asks, her curiosity genuine enough.

she mentions nemisis, then, and her absence. the edges of her muzzle curl in a dry, almost imperceptible smile. "beheaded," she clarifies, "for treason." a tilt of her muzzle that seems to say, or so I've heard. again, she wonders if beheading would have served to better her rule during her time with the nightwalkers; somehow, she doubts it. 

she reveals then her doubts, and the woman's nares flare. "if they run deep, do not waste your time following those you can not trust." doubts grew, like cracks in a sun-beaten sidewalk, fissured and widened until the basis of one's beliefs were made unstable and weak. one's loyalty must first be to one's self. if donovan turned out to be lacking, she'd have no qualms on turning her back on the group. besides, the silverlit was capable of better. 

"they're warriors, as the Nightwalkers were. but they've a structure we'd lacked, and donovan's followers — they're varied, united only by their shared decision to follow him." it was an honest analysis of the group, though her interest lay in how the rag-tag group that the ever-charismatic man had assembled would change as the weeks passed. "they've no shortage of enemies either; donovan repels just as many as he attracts,"  a shift of her brow, she's just as interested to see how this would end.

edited for added conclusion & archival.

beheaded. for treason.

what praimfaya would've given to have been there. to be her executioner. being denied the chance to enact jus drein, jus daun herself leaves a smart upon pride; the sting of an unintended insult. for now, she nurses it and tucks it away. the focal point was nemisis was gone ...though she is not surprised to learn of her demise. the woman was a loose cannon, barely controlled by donovan himself. if praimfaya hadn't made her escape, she does not doubt nemisis would've turned on donovan that day too, though how she managed to keep going when her wounds had to have been just as grievous as praimfaya's own was something the wanheda would never know. good. is all praimfaya offers.

a noise of affirmation, of agreement, is given. praimfaya's never really been a follower; groomed since her birth for the role of commander. blodreina had always meant for that to be her path.

sounds like my skills would be put to good use there. praimfaya muses quietly; contemplative. i've got enemies too. she says matter-of-factly, communicating that 'enemies' doesn't scare her. she's never been one to bulk in the face of danger and she doesn't plan on starting anytime soon.

i'll consider joining. i need a few days to gather my thoughts. after all, being exiled hadn't been in her plans and it leaves a feeling of unwellness in her that she hasn't accounted for; and praimfaya wanted to be at her peak when she began her ...infiltration. for now, she offers hela a parting smile. see you soon, maybe.