Bearclaw Valley a gentle gossamer wing

indra suspected she caught the fringe of shame in her companion's tones -- but when she looked at poet fully, no expression betrayed the subtle tone she had heard. indra elected then to not press the issue and stilled her tongue.

somehow the girl was not surprised to learn poet had been a priestess in a past life -- there was a forbidding sharpness about poet that indra could not identify -- but it was there keen as winter's edge or a falcon's yellow gaze.

"traditional?" indra repeated, an ear swung back as she weighed the word. what was traditional, anyway. was she traditional? blondine? xan or laurel? "how do you mean?"