Dragoncrest Cliffs every demon wants his pound of flesh,

While knowing he did not interrupt was some shade of relief, the mention of rumination brought a new nod forth, and though he had plenty he could ask about how, why, and so on, he held his tongue for now. Without understanding the depths of what weighed on her, maybe he understood the sentiment, and how similar it could be at the end of it all--when hurt, misfortune, bad luck, and whatever else simply piled up, compounded, and strangled one out. When not on guard, or at work, rumination was swift becoming one of his most frequent doings since the turn-coat of his daughter, and death of her mother, too.

And, very true, Aure had come at a delicate time.. the golden-furred wocha had to commend her for standing among them still. She had not been daunted by their tumultuous times (which was simply their style here, so this would not be their last--he could believe so with certainty), not enough so to turn-tail and leave them behind before truly coming to know them. Maybe that alone spoke more volumes that she could give herself credit for, and her exhaustion? Understandable, quite frankly, he replied alongside a knowing shake of his head and a tired look about him. His had long since manifested and hardened his muscles down to an old, ancient ache he didn't bother to feel most days--which he had accepted, without any choice otherwise, because what else in life did he have to truly fight for besides these cliffs and every Drakru upon them? A worthy cause enough for him.

When he pieced it together that she served as healer, something greater fell into place oh so subtly that he could only exhale a slow, measured sigh through his nose. His ears swung up, maybe finding some familiarity in hearing out the struggles of a healer. While never one himself, his last couple years had placed him close to one often kept busy by Drageda's tendency for not only trouble, but tenacity. They were never the sorts to turn from a fight, be it wolves, bears, or any other nature itself. Maybe it gets easier, or maybe not.. to find that proper balance. All you can do, though.. is appreciated, he said, quiet as he considered how to go next. My mate--she is gone now, but was fisa, and skayona before that. She saw to many in her times, always, with no shortage of something to tend here. He measured his words carefully, wondering if this would be enough insight into his life to say, without saying so, that he understood somewhat from the point of view he had.

Perhaps more intimately than many, he had seen Portia stress about her stores, her gardens, and whatever new ugly wound someone brought back for her to patch all at once--and when healing did not go accordingly, the toll that could take. He sympathized thanks to this. His mate's disposition had granted her ability to weather it, he supposed, and thus his draw to the warm sunshine she had been for many made sense. He had needed that light once, and time again. We do keep our healers busy, and it just seems to be our way. Has been for a long time, he said, almost sound apologetic but his words were steeped in experience. He had seen Drageda grow, struggle, suffer, change, and rise up, strong, steadfast, and imposing. But, hopefully we can help keep the rewards bountiful, too. He couldn't quite muster a true upturn to his expression then, but through only his own fault.