Otter Creek she was poetry in a world

the commander shifts, barely perceptibly does she register the woman's changing emotions. her answer comes then, one that is not a surprise. "I am sorry," she offers; the boy is in all likelihood dead, or made into something other than what he had been by whatever or whoever might have decided to take him in, as had occurred with her. still, to fail in one's duty stings, she knows, and she would not wish it on the silverlit. 

the warlord steps near, stilling again as the commander probes. her question is not expected, though one she'd been considering herself. donovan's ranks grow steadily, even as the list of his enemies does too. she'd liken him to a magnet, one that sought to attract and repel with equal effectiveness. "each of his wolves would have some different answer," she supplies; she does not know those who have fallen in line behind the man well enough to do more than guess at their reason for doing so, but thus far they have been varied. 

"I am injured, he offers a place to heal." it is the simple answer, a fairly direct summary of what had occurred. but she cannot content herself with offering only this, somehow, the woman prompts her to offer more. "besides that, he and his are — interesting. interesting has always served me better than routine." since she'd fled the woods life had been comprised of struggling to live, to learn, to adapt and lead stitched together with a few shreds of stillness and complacency.