The Bracken Woods you could trample upon,

the question from the ebony pelaged stranger draws the fierce level of praimfaya’s mercurial gaze; cutting. the assumption that she is running despite having no basis — her steps were casual, careful even in the thorny tangles of the bracken woods — makes her lip curl. clearly you and i have different ideas of what running looks like. praimfaya retorts; sharply, unamused. frustration lingers beneath her skin and she is ready to take it out upon the nearest thing. it begs to question what provokes that kind of question and immediately the commander is skeptical. who are you aulana? the trig slides off her tongue with unparalleled ease; the woman’s friendly smile met with praimfaya’s unfriendly stare.

she has no wish to be bothered; only to make it thru these woods without a collection of sap and thorns all thru her fur.