Swiftcurrent Creek The shade

Simran is quiet, for a time.

To be or not to be, that is their question as they weigh the scales for their decision. It is not one to make lightly, they believe, this is the future for them. They suck in a bit of their lip to chew on.

It’s the pack of warriors that gets them. The thought that another is out there, something like the life they left behind, it warms their belly and lights that fire behind their eyes once again. After a moment’s deliberation, trundling along, Simran eyes Kynareth, before nodding, rising to their feet.

I feel the manda has allowed us to meet for this reason. Their heart, that fragile broken thing they had never found a way to repair, began to beat a little faster at the idea.

I will come with you to your Saints. The rhythm of their heart sounds like drums to them, familiar as the songs they used to bellow with their fellow beroya. A new tribe, a new beginning. Simran of Clan Vos, Warrior of the Saints. They liked that title.