Blacktail Deer Plateau Get a little dirt on your hands

Her scarred lips part, sighing, for like the stranger before her she is wide and silver-eyed; withdrawn in words and just as quavering. But the confession nonetheless had her ruffled lips crescenting into a forgiving smile — the second one of the first of this summer moon. “You would do well to stay away from them entirely,” she entreated slowly, “they are nahtapië. Ah, bane-berry. Poisoning.” Half-sight fell to the red-rooted, ivory-bursting pomes, chiding. 

Then, after a moment, she then flushed from her previous outburst; winter-thin ears cast away, and the silver gave a sheepish cant of her tufted crown. “Forgive me. I was raised better than this. My name is Aurëwen...” The tones would’ve been songbird, had her voice not been so low, or the timbre like a trill, or the accent a purr. “Most call me Aure, though,” unable to help sparing another glance behind her — though she knew her sun-and-stars were in vigilant paws.

“Berries are fickle things, you know,” the herbalist mused, turning a listless eye back to the gilded one before her, “these, however, seem edible for only prey. Birds, namely; they like to uproot ze seeds, spread them about. If you go more southerly down through ze Kintlas, though, there is a lovely meadow bursting with them. Ah, edible berries, I mean.”

Rasping berries, blacksberries, bluesberries... And then, with another look of Forgive me, she blushed at her loquaciousness; cursed at herself once more for speaking at such length.