Ravensblood Forest everything that kills me makes me feel alive

“Sorry about our dumb brother”—so they were family, the three of them. Finley paid little mind to the apology, and if anything it heightened her impression of the male as the brains of the group; his wariness was hardly dumb. She barely had time to turn Spica’s words over in her mind before the sister, Syrma, spoke; their brother offered nothing but silent stares. Finley offered the same in turn, allowing the sisters to exhaust their introductions long before considering her own.

Adding to the fray, no sooner had the brother deflected inquiry about his “friend,” a new stranger made himself known. Intrigued glances from one of the sisters (Syrma? Spica? Finley had no eye for the minute differences, if any, between the hyper lookalikes) suggested Tuvaq’s entrance surprised them just as much. Finley eyed the males with her own suspicion. Something was not right. Why had the brother left, and why the caginess about Tuvaq?

Of peak concern, however, was the fact that this made not three but four outsiders at the border of Ravensblood. Finley hardly entertained the idea of “diplomacy;” Spica’s admitted curiosity had contradicted the feeble excuse on its heel. This was a pup’s outing, and sheer circumstance had thrown the remaining three into it. At least the sisters, if their word could be taken at face value (which Finley was only slightly inclined to do), meant no harm. Brother and Tuvaq were a different story.

If anyone spoke after the sister’s clarification of exploration, Finley was liable to miss it. Getting a read on one stranger could be difficult; two, doable if they worked in tandem; three, pushing it; four, forget it. It culminated in the faint skull-thumping protest of an early headache. “You are all very close to the border,” she grumbled, maybe interrupting maybe illegibly under her breath it didn’t really matter in the moment—a fleeting complaint more than anything.

A dumb vocalization, at that—she’d already lost by numbers alone. Provocation was… unwise. Finley waited for what might have been a gap in the conversation (or just someone finishing their sentence; it was mush in her head, still) and said, at a regular volume, “Finley,” clearing her throat, “Saints of the Dying Light.” Had she been asked a question? “Where are you from?” The question was for anyone, but Finley’s focus finally settled on the brother and Tuvaq once more. She suspected their answers would be of interest to everyone involved. Maybe it’d keep the focus off herself, and the border she was ill-equipped to defend.