Deepwood Weald if i cut my hair, hawaii will sink

[table width=85%][tr][td]

If there was one thing that Kitsch didn't like, it was change. The pearl was a creature of habit and she nurtured a great appreciation for knowing exactly what was going to happen next, and not because she maintained any sort of control, no — because she had seen it all play out before and knew what to expect. There was no sadness and no frustration; when nothing changed, there was very little possibility of sadness. In fact, the only time she ever felt wretched was after some sort of big life upset. Consistency was key, and she had found it here amongst the ghost wolves of neverwinter forest.

So when the girl was roused from her slumber and made to move on, she was. At first she protested, but West was the head of the operation and Kitsch was just — well, what exactly was she to West, after all? Why hadn’t she been ditched, the lamb who could do nothing [except offer some plaintive company and drain medicinal resources]? Kitsch often wondered what benefit the Madame received from her own charitability — and perhaps Kitsch should have questioned it more — but the girl felt much too fortunate to be too critical. It was the same reason that Kitsch did not pester West with questions about their destination, or about Libeccio’s whereabouts. If the woman wanted to talk, she would — but she wasn’t.

They hadn’t gotten very far when Kitsch felt a familiar sense of exhaustion creep into her bones. She was a waifish, lacelike thing without the stamina for travel, and her fine musculature had wasted during her convalesce. West easily outpaced her and Kitsch traveled behind, her aquamarine gaze trained on the ground just behind the woman’s hocks. Finally, Kitsch huffed and broke the silence with a listless ”Can we please rest?”

[/td][/tr][/table]