Lion Head Mesa thirty-seventh

Something something princess, marriage, pregnancy, Lilitu, Charles. At this point, Wren could hardly bring herself to focus on the conversation. Princess made her think of a little black-coated girl dancing around as a knight steals a kiss from her, cartoonishly riding off into the blazing sunset on the back of a bison. Oh, man, that's so funny. She wants to laugh, but physically stops herself with a paw that presses to her lips.
Oh, holy shit, something is so very wrong. Shut up, shut up, do not say a word about Lilitu. She's lucky she had just enough remaining inhibition to control herself. That's a shame.
Absentmindedly, she leans on the sharpened shoulder of Akavir. Her vision blurs in a strange way that she decides she absolutely cannot stand, and her legs feel oh so warm and wobbly. Are the, the berries supposed to make you feel weird? Or am I just, like, allergic? Drowsy gaze wanders to the forest-eyed man before it rolls over to Akavir, or what she can see of his face from between the raven fibers of fur.