Whitefish River this is how we heal:

“Den gyon au, ai trikova.”

Her moonbow jaw quivered — at the implications, the vexation of his parting from them — and made her next words delicate. But they were not without her own tormented, viperish taint as she went on, “And when you make them as affrighted of you as our son is of them, when you give them the deaths they don’t deserve,” somnolent, lurking fury tousling her ruff, “return to us.”
To me. But it was too selfish to add that. Not when she must stay by their children’s sides as their father strode the path to vengeance.

And yet, Aure so pined to follow; to revel in the unmaking of those who had brought her family misery.

“Here we are again,” she murmured, then, more to herself than to her beloved, “plotting to do away with those who’ve wronged us,” her mind threading faraway to her spring revelation to Verx of the Dreadwolf. Of his doings to her brother, and to her. The ‘mares had dimmed, but in the wake of their son’s trials, they’d... 

The herbalist stood to attention, suddenly, hoping the movement rid the prolonged shiver from her doe-thin figure. With a turn to Vercingetorix and an appeasing wriggle of thin shoulders, “At least, let me make a poison?” A faux-plea in the form of honeyed words, more for his benefit than hers — always — as she teased and lilted and entreated, “Beja? Bejaaa? Jos gon yu.”

Then reiterating, with a sly smirk through her sweet lil murder mama façade, “Os, gon emo,” in a devious drawl.