Northstar Vale girl, with an accent of blood

“I remember,”  the silver relays in a terse murmur, her own frosted gaze flitting back and forth between the sea-sculpted viper and her ascendant, one eye forever misted. There was no impending doom to be felt by the presence of kru, other than the painstakingly felt. And though Aurëwen had been kru, she was also not, and so did not follow their ways any longer; but she wouldn’t look down on those younger than her in the least.  “My Dragomir, my Isilmë — they used to play with you.”

She felt disheveled, and probably looked as worn as the moon’s trials caught up to her; but here, there was no care for it. For days and days her brow had been drawn low and her features had been ungentled, warding off every wolf she cherished; wishing to be held and spoken to and yet, not. Aurëwen didn’t try to comprehend what she should and should not do, or how her frozen, unfavorable impressions only harried those further from her.

So instead, the druid veered without fear from the wanheda, and threaded a significantly alienated way to the lake’s edge. It was only when she prepared to kneel and drink that she queried,  “How have ze mountains been treating you so far, in your endeavor?”  Quieting, then, she drank.