Honeyed Pasture Water stings the lungs

ee snatches this!
morning post blehh

Thin, hymnal: "Meldenya?"
a vague unknowingness shrouding the chords; first, for her hesitance of ever have returning to this gilded little realm of forsaken fronds; second, for the manner in which these old bones lie beneath her.

The dove-boned silver does not think her elder has been trodden with hoof; and by the sodden salt upon grayed coat, she can only assume that the argent has been sent from the spitting seas; which she and hers have sighted through rises in their Weald.

Neither does the stricken know whom of hers has dared near enough to salvage souls from the ravaged shores. It might have been prudent, to have sewn her lips shut and to let the argent rest; and for but a moment felt an echo of the weight within that marrow in that of her own.

For now, Andraste is quiet;
watchful and wisping warden for both of their persons.