Bearclaw Valley valkyrie

towhee stirs awake suddenly, heart hammering rapidly in her chest from her nightmare. her mind replays what she can remember of it sluggishly, like moving thru oil slick until she forces herself to think of anything but. a bad dream and not one worth remembering. especially as it causes such a visceral reaction within her.

she rises to her paws with a stretch, casting a quick assessing gaze to the sky; eyeing the moon in an effort to try to figure out if it was still night or early morning.

early morning, she deduces.

knowing sleep would not come to her again, she makes a sharp noise to ghost who slumbers contently in a tree high above. the falcon awakens and groggily makes his way to his favored perch betwixt her shoulders.

towhee sets off, unsure of where she was heading; caring only that focusing on her path kept her mind off of haunting images of her nightmare.

The doe wakes in the early morning, groggy but with purpose in her step. She exits her den into the territory, bathed in the light of the rising sun.

However her step is slowed when she spots a strange sight: a raven perched upon the shoulders of a woman. She smells of Bearclaw, but they are yet to meet.

Milan notes the distance in the other's stare; it is familiar to her. A clear sign of a troubled mind. Paws carrying her forward, she lowers her head in her approach. Are you alright? She speaks in a gentle tone, one that comes naturally to her.

We are yet to meet. My name is Milan. She offers her name in hopes that it will provide some comfort.

towhee is approached.

good then that the woman approaches her and speaks then trying to draw her attention from behind her, towhee thinks.

it draws towhee out of her reverie, blinking with a small start; quickly reading the woman's lips. luckily. was she alright? her nightmare had been haunting, but that was all it was. a nightmare. no truth to it. no divine signs from something that towhee herself did not believe in.

a small nod is given.

milan.

towhee offers a soft, sheepish twitch of her lips; unable to return the favor of offering her own name: though she has gotten quite used to and grown attached to the nicknames that have been bestowed upon her over the years. quill. silenthunter. there have been many and would be many more, she does not doubt.

almost apologetically, she lifts her paw to touch her ears, her throat and then her mouth: a new and thus far effective way of communicating that she could neither hear nor speak and thus did not make for any sort of riveting conversationalist.