Northstar Vale girl, with an accent of blood

Shame, white and blistering, surges up through the tight, shaking muscles in her back; makes her wish to grow wings as a dove and fly from this encounter. Shame wants Bounkola to curve her spine and barter pleas for apology. Shame has her wondering if she should have stayed, albeit beneath the reign of a creed she couldn’t breathe under. Shame has her biting her down into a lower lip, for though she’d left prominently for her children, it’d been to bring their father back into their lives, too. And, o! wasn’t he? And yet ... shame would never be through with her — and she pitilessly believed she was deserving of the blame, all. 

Neck bones strained beneath skin and hide from their hollow above her breast; as Praimfaya steps ever closer, airgetlám kneads her claws into the moss, the loam, to root herself in place. Egg coos.  “Os sonop. Ste yu—?”  and the tentative use of Trig has become bitter on her foreign tongue. Everything had.  “What are you doing, here? Scouting?”