Dragoncrest Cliffs a paean

you cannot speak. a choice rises up within her mind, and by the time Rosalyn is done speaking, she has made a decision. she opens her mouth just wide enough to let her tongue hang free, putting on full display the ugly, scarred appendage.

they are kindred creatures, Avicus thinks, staring at the woman's own myriad scars. each highly altered from their original states, carved into something new by the horrors of the earth and its inhabitants.

she could speak—once. now she is more like her mother than ever.

fresh tears stand suddenly in her eyes, blurring her vision. this woman is a mother, but she isn't Astara. for one solitary instant, all she wants is to run back to the valley, to grovel at her dam's paws, to fit herself within the curves of that midnight breast.

a fleeting instinct, just an instant. . .but oh, what a strong desire it is!