Bramblepoint for neither ever, nor never

There was a sudden commotion to be heard while she walked; Hydra could hear it coming. It was the sound of chaos, disassembled—not the sort nature wrought, but a different kind. Hydra did not slink to the shadows to see it from a distance but instead look at the face of it. Her muzzle dipped easily over her throat, and the Queen braced herself, weight balanced on all fours; she prepared to evade as need be, or else meet it head on, depending—

But what emerged was not at all what she expected—who, even. Before her, in a discomposed disarray, was Isilme—out of breath, with a terrible stink to her, who speaks breathlessly. He's dead, the mercenary's daughter had said, and then, spoke of fairness—Hydra's demeanor shifted, stoic yet not at all unwelcoming as her gaze softened upon the frazzled cub. Death never is, Hydra shared darkly; Isilme had learned too soon this terrible fact. That thought again: too soon. Hydra took a tentative step toward Isilme, should the girl permit it, to sniff and discover who had passed—Dragomir? Or maybe her father, Vercingetorix. Perhaps the girl would think nothing of it, her attempt at nearness, but Hydra also sought to show her she was not alone as best she could. That in of itself would take time, but Hydra would not abandon her. 

How? She asked next, nostrils flaring to drink the scents that Isilme possessed regardless of proximity. What had done this? Nature's unpredictable fits, predator, or one of their own? Hydra, for her own part, remained a point of stillness, hoping the girl might somehow fix upon her and follow suit, if it was at all possible for her, amongst all the rest.