Hushed Willows [festival] so twice five miles of fertile ground

Aure was by herself through the entire foreign exchange, smiling unawares and entertaining her ears to the melodic tumble of this language she’d never heard before. It was good that the herbalist hadn’t been born to the tongue of Luk. Let them think she was beguiling, blithe; let them think that there was nothing that aches within the recesses of herself. Had she’d known what was truly being said, that little deception may have been doled out a bit more severe.

As it was, though, she didn’t understand a thing, nor possess that malicious and seething intent. If anything, by their edged words, she simply assumed their eyes had been caught on passerby or some shared memory. (Then again, the one she loved was roguish, ravishing — so could she have ever argued, had she known?)

Regardless of every intent she didn’t know, and merely assessing what was displayed before her, it was with a further smile that she addressed Tashkent. ”Barbarian you claim to be, but Drageda is such that appreciates ze beauty of brutality.” The starlit gaze glinted, with her own sort of impish humility. ”Our cliffs always need beating hearts; I suspect that additions will be more welcome now than ever.”

The medic spoke true — at least, as true as she could lent out. She was not so enamored with the horde as to be unwary of those who wished to become initiated. All the same, however, the geda-by-the-sea has since dwindled in numbers following the loss of its commander. Aure only hoped that this survivalist could be of as much use as she claimed to be.