Firefly Ravine paeta

Eirlys maintained her hurried pace for some time before the ache in her leg forced her to slow, gait faltering as she began limping in earnest. “Don’t, Ceallach,” she begged, a smile tugging at the pain-hardened line of her mouth as she caught his eye and saw the hint of mischief there. More spiritedly, “Maybe I’ll give you one just like it,” she threatened playfully, falling back upon the tried and true Ansbjørn method of teasing the mood back to a suitably buoyant level. “We’ll have to add something new whenever they ask us to tell it,” she joked. “Add two inches to his fangs every time.” She trembled as she crumpled weakly to the ground, tilting her head up to Ceallach and practically crossing her eyes to watch him as he cleaned the scrapes on her muzzle.

His worry for her was sweet and painful, and tears gathered in her eyes as she espied the pinch of his brow that spoke of an oncoming headache. “I’m sorry, rakas,” she said more quietly. “I’ll be more careful.” Her nickname for him would have lifted some tundran brows — it was more suitable for a mate or a boyfriend — but Eirlys didn’t have any reason to question its use. She couldn’t remember when she’d started calling him that, but it was some time after Lotte’s death — when it didn’t hurt so much to hearken back to the mysterious Enok Tundra that she’d spoken of so fondly.

Yelling in the distance caused her ears to swivel in that general direction. She heard @Chusi’s shout — something accusatory, something about a boyfriend — and then an answering call that was softer and more melancholy, and therefore harder to catch. “Chusi!” she gasped fretfully. “She should’ve been right behind me. What if she’s hurt? You don’t think they hurt her, do you, Ceallach?” She attempted to struggle to her feet, but she was literally too butthurt to rise.