Meadowlark Prairie I was damned by the light comin' out her eyes

She is not alone for long. 

Another emerges from the distant wilderness, the wind bringing her pack scent long before the svelte form of the dark lady approaches. 

A soft greeting escapes her lips, Istoira's tattered auds rising to catch it. 

"Greetings, sister," the former slave murmurs as dark crown bows deeply in respect. As she rises, the Wound-binder's hellish gaze dances over a scarred lime orb, a damaged leg, a rounded stomach that points to motherhood. She wonders idly what the blackbird has survived, what she has seen. 

"I am Istoira. Might I ask your name, dark lady?"