Whitefish River and the ships are left to rust

Half-sight takes in the halt and quiver of the cervine duo before them, stilling just as they, and relaxing only when their rumination of the late summer growth resumes. Then, her mind wanders back to Dawn's tellings,  "It is becoming known to me, now, that if one begins at an early age, your craft becomes that much more instilled. It's only what I suppose, anyway."  Especially the more ... demanding arts. When the physical had not been her apparent forte, the at-the-time heiress had been turned to healing and the study of greenery. Aure hadn't favored that practice—not at first. "As for deer, I've only been able to overwhelm a few lame fawn, and one prong lamb; I try to strike from above, at ze very least."

So far, the force of which she befell her quarry at the neck to stun had been working. If only she had been born with more power in her jaw ...

"Birds?" she hummed, and at once a bitterness sat smack on her tongue and in her recollections; the scars writhed. "I asked to be versed in snaring them, once, but ze mentor was ... how do you say?" A heartbeat, then a scoff:  "A bastard."  The cream kru, he with a miserable, imperious pointedness had been one of the few that the silver smarted towards, and there would never be a love lost there.  "Perhaps someday, should I find one more suitable and without impasse."