Moonspear seal team sixty-nine sexecuting the hit

the woman who came to meet them was the exact opposite, it seemed, of Aure—the yearling's gaze fell on her with a fair bit of awe, impressed at this commander of the mountain. she is silent; however, spine stiff and infused with a kind of grim hope. her gaze remains fixed on Hydra as she tells them first that Aure was here, and then that she was struck by lightning. the world feels hollow, and she terribly, terribly, guilty. she'd seen what lightning had done to trees, left them burned and black and empty, and can not imagine Aure in the same state. and the whole while she'd been gone, she'd fumed, thought the worst—

and then the worst was delivered to her in the same breath. Aure was not dead—she was alive, and had no intention of returning to them. no, not quite; the heavens had not allowed her. dread and hate and guilt again, a teeming whirlpool on the edge of which she teetered. Drago's abrupt departure had her head whip around to follow him and threatened to send her flying into that whirlpool, but she tightened her jaw and dragged her focus back to Hydra and her father, even though her brother's sobs demanded she go to him. 

aure had always had reasons, excuse for her absence, so had Verx. it did not make things right, but it allowed to understand even a little, to try and justify it. but now—her heavens? heavens were no reason to keep a mother from her children, not if her children were good enough. they must not have been. 

the conversation turns, again, a new pack, again, an absent parent. suddenly, she doesn't care, can't. she nudges her father's shoulder lightly and motions in the slightest towards her brother before leaving the two adults to speak, unable to care for the outcome. 

she crouches next to her brother, between him and the audience composed of Hydra and her father and the unknown wolf. "I'm here, @Dragomir. I'm still here," she mutters, touching her muzzle to his shoulder, resiting to urge to curl up beside him and do the same.