Shadowwyn Moor he's got eyes, but he can't see

promises were a strange thing, Indra thought. we promised and we hedged our faith into what merely constructed as words - promises, Indra had found, were just as breakable as thin twigs in a winter’s coldsnap. that they were articulated as an oath meant very little. it was just as easy to go back on a promise - just as easy as it was for the wind to change direction, or the tide to change its swell. in some ways the fickleness of a promise mirrored that evercoursing wind - strong and hale as it shrieked through the atmosphere, yet frustrated at every turn by rocks and trees and topography until it was scarcely a trickle.

she pursed her lips in disapproval but said nothing else on the matter; one wolf’s bitter opinion of the worth of a promise does not a prophecy make.

”well I will look out for them for you. Wraen is my friend, too.” and Indra meant it as she searched the emerald depths of his gaze: wraen, other than laurel, was of incredible importance to the russet redleaf.