Twisted Slough le moineau a volé

Wraen—what an interesting name. Perhaps if she had been in a better headspace, she may have said so. But Phoebe was far from any sort of even keel, no matter how well she stifled her own consideration of such. If she had been all right in any sense, she wouldn't have found herself miles and miles from home, gone without so much as a notice, and only assuming she would eventually give up the notion and return.

"It's Phoebe," she offered with a thin, kind smile. "Safe travels, Wraen."

On the off chance that the other knew her in some way, be it by word of mouth or some familial connection, Phoebe was not about to stay. With a dip of her head as a gesture of farewell, she set off swiftly on the path she had chosen. It was a careful about of walking, but she felt a certain confidence that she could master the bog so long as she paid attention.