Gyrfalcon's Keep in the forests of the night

for the most part, praimfaya slumbers. on and off; fits of light and deep sleep depending on the pain levels of the wounds along her throat, shoulder, muzzle and eye. somedays were tolerable and during others they throbbed and smarted with a mighty vengeance. when she is awake she eats whatever her medics bring to her: be it meat or medicines. she drinks and then she rests more in the hopes that she will recover quicker.

she stirs awake at the sound of approach; breaching the surface of her nonsensical tendrils of dreams. she blinks, bleary eyed at the form of sugar glider and then at the form of opalia as her once subordinate trails behind the striped girl. at first, praimfaya considers that she is an illusion — a side effect of some poppy ...but the utterance of wanheda, the myriad of scents: familiar as they were, tell praimfaya that opalia was not a vision.

opalia, her voice is rough, grates with a rasp that has never been present before. it is the first time in a few days that she's heard it fully lucid and it sounds almost like it must belong to a stranger; it doesn't. ai moba... she swallows hard and winces. ai nou beda lesad oyu. as with all mistakes they are only mistakes when the turning point of the error is teeth at one's throat. as with most mistakes, praimfaya wonders if she's learned this one too late and hopes, at the very least, that opalia can forgive her though she knows she does not necessarily deserve it.