Little Goat Mountain bewusstsein

By the time she regained control of her limbs enough to flee, Mahler noticed her. Damnit, she thought as a vacant expression drifted across her face, replaced in an instant by something resembling politeness, except it was a little too bright-eyed even for Wylla to be totally genuine. It wasn't that she wanted to be rude to him—quite the opposite, she wanted very much to grasp the olive branch he'd extended in forgiving her—she just didn't know how to face him after all he'd told her.

And after she'd bared her soul, even for just a second or two; now their dynamic had changed and she felt woefully disadvantaged. Hullo, she said in a clinically chipper voice that made it all too obvious she was trying to act like everything was totally fine. For his part, Mahler was much better at pretending nothing happened than she was, and she had to wonder if it all had been just a dream.

From the sound of his warning, he wasn't giving her much of a choice. If what he said was true, and Wylla couldn't say with certainty that it wasn't, she was risking a mini avalanche if she tried to go up there. The idea of being forcefully snowed on by a mountain made her mouth taste sour, so she put thoughts of escaping up the slope from her mind. Sure I'll just go climb up there and die in a landslide, sounds great, she said sarcastically as she fell in step behind him.

Slept great, she responded at last to his initial greeting, this time with more sincerity. It'd been a long time since she had the safety of a group to allow her to rest easily. She'd slept like the dead. Had a perv or two sneak in on me but I'll spare you the details. She jested, but eyed him carefully for his reaction all the same.