Golden Glade upon the moment i could talk, i was ordered to listen

sionnach's viper teeth pierced the fern's fronds; in seconds, the stalk was broken and a milky gleam rose where the stalk had snapped. sionnach's expression wrinkled: either out of distaste of the plant's taste, or by the news rannoch reluctantly imparted upon her.

friends? what about her? was she not breccan's friend? sionnach's face contorted even more, pouting in a convoluted, dejected way. "i don't like it." she grumped under her breath, diving for the fern again. unsurprisingly, it still tasted nasty -- her muzzle wrinkled immediately in disgust, and she spat out the fern. "what if he doesn't come back?"