Honeyed Pasture ³a tenna nárenna

my brain is failing me pls forgive

At moments, the silver could sight the ruminators through the nodding stalks of amber; the greater gatherings would not wait for the weaker, the wizened, or  (she figures)  the heavyset and womb-laden. Solemn gaze considered the yearling, then ... or, perhaps she would shoulder her way to the hind with an awkward step. Which, though, would serve as the most prospective quarry?

But Andraste has become accustomed to the inquisitive press of eyes — and she feels them prod into her red spine as if another has elbowed her in hopeful jest. That’s certainly the tone of voice, she thinks, and so the stricken’s rubied crown cants dovelike at the enquiry this scavenger proposes. The proposition. A long lull of quiet, as her halfsight remains on the paltry herd. Then:

“Yes.”  The tones are low, languid; ponderous.  “I feel it in ze earth. I smell it in ze air. I know it in ze heavens,”  and only a hushed frankness is found therein. Otherwise, she trills a gentled hum of invitation; gestures with a shorn chin to the myriad selection whiles before them.  “This, however, I have yet to decide upon.”