Dragoncrest Cliffs I'll be dancing until 1972

The brana was relieved, in some worn, wearied way, that she was not the only one to evade heda’s call. From where she had perched on the cliff some time ago, acting as a snowy sentinel, the minute she-wolf had seen one of the Sounds’ own riddled to shreds. She was trying to not think about it. The bravery of it. The foolishness, the male who’d done it.

In her first week here, war had disrupted the quiet of her being; had charged like a tempest into her mind. Her musings over whether or not to commit to kru had, admittedly, come with it. It was no fault of theirs, in her mind; and yet, she’d barely gotten a wink of repose at all these past few harrowing days.

If she was being truly honest, aside from her own measly skirmishes... she’d never experienced war, save for tale and time that’d been crooned to her as a babe. She was coming to know, however, that it drew her in when she did not want it; eroded at her cosmos-longing mind like Drageda’s sea at stone. And she knew, then, after that bloody battle on the shores, that she was petrified.

For the first time in months, in years, she had never felt so small. So utterly helpless, without and inkling of what to do. Would she even last into the second week?

And she was restless. So, so strained and restless.

So she made herself veer in the direction of wherver the healers’ cove, letting bits of what’d she’d heard from idle talk lead her slight paws; taking care to keep herself fleeting and coveted from possible enemy eyes.