Otter Creek she was poetry in a world

praimfaya.

her name drifts to her from a voice that over the months they've known each other, though their meetings have been few and far between, has become familiar.

praimfaya's head lifts from the gurgling creek, the trickle of water smoothing away stone: peaceful and destructive all the same. her salmon pink tongue draws across her jowls to catch stray droplets as she turns, leisurely, to face the warlord. hela — the wanheda greets the woman in return only to feel her next words reach 'round her throat like jaws; clamping. hela ... hela smells as renard does: of the saints.

all at once there is a measurable rush of feelings: anger, betrayal ( again, why praimfaya will never know, it's not as if these wolves owed her anything ), and perhaps most strangely of all envy. what was it about donovan that drew hela in? praimfaya lets out a soft breath of air, ears thrusting forth atop her skull at hela's question. no. my mission was a failure. not that praimfaya was very surprised; still it stings all the same.

the question nags at her, itches like an itch that cannot be scratched until she blurts, what is it about donovan that draws people in? for she is both a bit genuinely curious and wondering if she's been going about jus drein, jus daun all wrong. i know you're with the saints. she supplies in explanation and struggles for a moment, putting her words together in her head before offering, softer yet, what does he offer?