Barrow Fields i don't fly around your fire anymore

does the word “enemy” even exist in Aure’s dictionary omg-

”No, I didn’t know that one of my hû kept one of your own and, as you stated, mutilated and did ‘who knows what’ to. I was barely familiar with ze cliffs when I’d heard we had a captive!” Scarred skin drawn taught over the thin bones of her face, Aure snapped her head about to attention from where she knelt. ”And, no, I don’t know ze ways of war. Perhaps an ambush seems entirely logical to you. It would hinder me just as much as it would you.”

She stilled for a moment, to study the heady skepticism that was threaded through every lean, toughened stretched of the Rusalkan’s form. ”Oh, for heaven’s sake!” her posture the epitome of exasperation as she wilted, shoulders curling, before she promptly rose and marched right back over to the hooded she-wolf. ”You’re not going to be ambushed, but you are going to be situated here all night if you keep this up.” There was no snarl on her face; only a weary thinning of patience in her eyes, her shivery voice.

Being kept from foraging made her snappish—but as far as Caphias being deserving of it, Aure relented, humming a quiet apology. ”Forgive me. We both have been put in a position where faith has become but a myth anymore. I shouldn’t be losing myself upon another who is going through the exact same tiding.” Her brows were still knit, but she again studied the prominent wound(s) upon Caphias’ frame. ”Have you been tended to, yet?”

The herbalist wasn’t even pissed; just fussy with a patient, as it turned out. Not scared for her life, or fighting for it, as she should be. No—she was intent to treat this harpy, no questions asked. And if Drageda would have her throat for it, then... she’d waited long enough to die for doing what she believed was right.