The Sunspire every laugh

with her wounds all but scarred over — with a few remaining scabs protecting the fresh scarflesh — praimfaya takes to exploring in earnest once more. scars in her culture were nothing to weep over; they proved prowess in battle, they proved she was against all odds a survivor. she moves through the tall grasses, pausing to nip at her left shoulder as a the bowing feathery grass tickle against the killmarks there. as she turns her frostbound gaze back to the path she's idly surveyed she takes note of the monochrome spectre laying low in the grasses. a low chuff leaves the wanheda's lips to announce her presence though she thinks it is unlikely she moves unnoticed sticking out as sorely against the subtle earth colors as he does.