Barrow Fields three(?) children and a (man)baby

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Rage. Unending and exhaustive and frightful rage had hilted into her bones for the entirety of a day-and-half. Bones that knew her mortal nemesis hadn’t been thwarted from the earths he’d bloodlet of; and it was that same letting that had consumed her in the evening following his descent — her descent — from the plateau.

The silver thinks she could bear a few more kill marks; and she wouldn't ever know repose until he'd been smote from the world, her fangs in his throat. As it should've been... and would be. It was a slavering rage that would've had quite its time to dethrone Rosalyn's ire; who, for now, would go entirely unaddressed by the herbalist.

But at the sight of the sea  ( ! )  and her children  ( !! )  and of dragostea  ( !!! ), rage and fright promptly withered from her specter’s figure, and her legs, so near to wilting, worked themselves past the searing pierce of herb-encrusted liaisons upon shoulder and ribs; all of it withered down down down only to leave scarred lips in a shivery, sob-soft warble of “Seingeda.”

Over and over and over was that thing of Trig repeated; her own accent tonguing that word so poorly. But then she was striding as Striders like her do, and then she was outright flying for them, crying in broken Trig, probably looking ridiculous as ever, “Goufas! Niron!” her voice pitched and breaking and croaking from previous rage.

It’s what the three of hers were to her, each. Whether they now held her contempt, aversion, well... Aurëwen winged her way right to them, for all the world looking very much a tearful mess mother who wouldn’t ever desert those so precious to her heart; no matter how much her ribs pained her, or how much her voice failed her. Not that any of those gathered knew she'd leapt through hell and back  (with help!)  to protect her cubs, to find their father, but it did wonders to her euphoric, tear-stricken relief.