Honeyed Pasture Water stings the lungs

sorry for the wait, wacky week urghh

Andraste would never again mother;
yet, should she be branded fanatic for the nurturing of those not of her flesh, her blood; sneered as good shepherd; for living the life of one absolutely struck into a new, fathomless vessel; known as maddened, unhinged for all she would do from this hour and next; all by those who would not understand unless they wished to—

The silver winged near and nearer; saw the gleam of eyes that greeted the stars first, and then herself; heard the huff of a chuff; invitation. It was all she needed.

Inspective, tender touches;
the rabbit-pink nose limned the arch of an ashen ear, nostrils flickering; remembering the stir of brine within her own blood. Then, with a halting endeavor, the stricken eventually allowed herself to drape about her elder wanderer's threshold; ribs tentative the the worn spine.

Should there be even the faintest show of fury, she would retreat. For now:
"I am here,"  with a dove's tip of the shorn crown. ... How had the seas wrung this foamflower so soundly?