Nova Peak If you must mourn, don't do it alone

The rain was loud, but the drumming of Stag’s paws was louder; she swivelled her right ear to listen first, then turned an almost lazy half-circle. By now, she thought she recognized the gaits of those she spent the most time with. Stag’s was particularly distinct thanks to the sheer length of his legs, the stretch of each stride. She wasn’t surprised at all to see his jade eyes when she locked sights on him.

She was surprised by the sizable groundhog he toted along with him, and predicted his intentions precisely as he announced them aloud. His tone brooked no argument, which impressed Wylla. She liked Stag a great deal, but she thought he could be a little soft sometimes. It benefited him in some ways, like with Phaedra, but she’d worried about his conviction in others. It seemed she had no reason to.

Yes, sir, she said, dipping her head and ears alike in brief deference. Even her tail swept down to wave genially toward the ground, so different from its usual cocked position. He was right. She couldn’t very well work herself to the bone, even though the stubborn part of her insisted that she didn’t need any food. Mahler would scold her. Stag, too, apparently.

Out of nowhere, she asked, your dad led once, right? She knew next to nothing about Stigmata, and had never really bothered to ask. He was dead, and she wasn't too fond of unearthing ghosts. When he wasn’t busy being a tree, I mean, she tacked on with a cheeky grin, bending to rip flesh gratefully at the woodchuck’s belly. She wondered if he would remember.