Firefly Ravine no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace

Her reply was a lilting hum of “I am Aurëwen” and, then, after a thin-lipped musing of herself, “Would that I wish I was entirely lucid. I would sleep, and vanish when I wished. Mm.” At present, it was true — she wanted nothing more than to drape herself in some private little place from the dark briars of her sorority, her romance, her position. She wish to sleep and sleep, wake all tearful, and sleep some more. If not, she would continue to linger as if not entirely having left her fevered-dreams.

Regardless of the older male’s scrutiny of her lethargic, sylphlike demeanor, Aurëwen couldn’t resist not being so impish at this moment. It was one thing to look at her and know that she was soulful and good, but her interest in these sardonic, unfazed responses toed avidity. The last thing on her mind would have been to coax him into the relentless river — they were both of such sound mind besides, and the idea of tricker-ing the one before her seemed so ludicrous. But if she were to be seen as a lamb, rather than a fey and gray myriad of the two, then perhaps she might find her shepherd in this solider?

Still, though; this morning she was the Lady that she never wanted to be, and couldn’t resist dancing with this stranger for only a few moments more. ”Your concern for my being drowned will be held in my highest regard,” and there was a curling of the tattered dove’s lips, ”Your consideration is nigh on three winters late, I fear.” And that would be all the elaboration she’d give — unless she condescended to feel lenience, later.

Otherwise, she settled with a muted, almost petulant breath upon her haunches; the only moment where grace truly left her. ”Perhaps we may wander together, if you would allow it. I’ve only been through this d-damned ravine some few times; ze most recent of which nearly made me dead.” Made me dead? For the first time she seemed aware of her very-lucid verbal missteps, and the red of her facade wreathed in distaste—but dismissed it all the same with a shrug of thin shoulders.

”You seem nearly as world-weary as I, Ser. Nearly,” she admonished, treading something coquettish and haughty. But there was the modesty to her airs, too, as if truly believing whatever hard-won travails of his to be standing before her, all brooding and breathing as he was.