Whitefish River do we get what we deserve

Like the murky waters of the river, her gaze seemed to speak of deeper depths; it lacked the fire he was used to. It was still there but dim, solely apparent for appearances when she was not consumed by caliginous concerns which as of late was expectedly often. It was that gaze met and looked past to the way they had come, her huff met with a quiet snort of his own—a resolute, cheeky be that way, then. She was good with here, at least, wherever here was on their way.

But he found he wanted to tell her to let it go. Wash her feet and be done with it. Dirge understood and simultaneously did not understand the gravity of her guilt or the way it weighed her down. He at least had the smarts not to rattle the words out, that relative uncertainty in how to approach the topic rendered and kept him silent. Better to sweep it under the rug and ignore the elephant in the room; time and distance seemed to be the only pancaea he knew.

As she reclined, he shook out the dampness of his coat. It was more than just a shake to fling mud and water off—he did it more to ease the tension bearing down unseen and unheard. It did little to aid him, and the discontent pallor lent to her affected him still. So he drew his gaze back out across the river to the budding thunderheads and in his derision found them ill-favored yet fitting.

"Any suggestions where to go next? I can live without seeing the sand again myself but here the possibilities are endless," and actually, he missed the sea already. Skirting along its shores once or twice had only whet his appetite for the uncommon locale and this go around had not quite offered him his fill. But Nyx was unquestionably more important and Dirge would sweep his want under that rug with her grief too.