Neverwinter Forest faoi bhun mo chiche beats croi de laochra fior

NOTE: In Cypress’ personal timeline, this takes place after his thread with Rian and before his thread with Ondine.

Cypress didn’t mind the way the murkwater turned his fur into a wreath of twisted brambles. He didn’t mind the blood that streamed down his forelegs and blotted the mismatched corners of his mouth. The Eastmire was swiftly growing on him as a favored — and literal — stomping ground, and he felt an instinctive possessiveness toward it, but it provided little in the way of drinkable water. Reluctant as he was to leave it, his parched throat and empty gut led him briefly away — and he thought again of Alya and her brilliant blue eyes — eyes that had become a shade uniquely their own the closer and longer he looked.

Alya was the Eastmire — an entity that he wanted to protect and preserve at all costs; a sanctuary that settled and grounded him — but she was the river, too. For want of her company, he’d willingly breach the unknown, because she satisfied something in him that he still couldn’t fully understand. Reuniting with Rian had empowered the haggard raven in a strange, invigorating way, and his long legs had a glimmer of their old snap as he trotted without thinking to the stretch of river he’d decided to add to his claim.

Lapping at the water was a female of short, compact construction and pale coloration, and Cypress’ immediate response was to backpedal. Stricken, he paused midstride and rewound, settling his weight on his asymmetrically settled hind paws as he glanced nervously over his shoulder with a furtive air. One muddy forepaw hung awkwardly in midair before he swallowed hard and placed it, forcing himself to refocus as he licked at his bloodied lips. He knew who the girl was by process of elimination: she hadn’t been present on the Night of Fireflies, and she certainly wasn’t Rian, so, “Szabala?” he intoned, uncertainty and adolescence causing his quiet baritenor to crack sharply in the middle with a squeak. One tall, sharp ear winged awry. Did he introduce himself? He knew who she was, and he thought she knew who he was — there were no other black wolves in Neverwinter Forest, after all — but this was their first time actually conversing.

“Sorry,” he muttered ineloquently, apologizing for his unkempt appearance and his absence and everything in between.