Hideaway Strath the one minute, the soldier's minute

though his head felt stuffed of cotton and a beehive, as the woman approaches him, wintersbane is able to dull the worst of it as he focuses upon her, the way she speaks accented by the weird gesturing she does. he doesn't try to understand what the gesturing means — at least not yet. to try to figure it out, to try to even put some of his brainpower towards it causes a dull ache to throb in the back of his skull.

wintersbane or panther? his memory was fuzzy at the very best, painful too and there was no guarantee how long it would last before it exhausted him. wintersbane, he gives his name. a home. he rasps and then wonders how truthful he should be with his limited memory. i used to live here once. in the strath, i mean. when it was teaghlaigh. perhaps it is a homesickness that draws him here now, or perhaps it is the hopes that lotte's grave might drive the nail home and restore what he feels like is trying to grasp smoke betwixt his teeth.

but there is a real chance she will send him packing and wintersbane does not rule that out as a possibility.