Lost Creek Hollow excessum

A man's voice. One not from Germanicus. When she turns, she's met with sorrowful eyes; golden, painted with confusion, hurt. She's with me, Crowfeather.
Shakily, her tongue lolls as the last of the petals are coated with saliva and twirl to the forest floor. My name is Wren, I'm from Swiftcurrent, her ears, falling to the sides of her head in a splay, even as her voice holds firm and booms from her chest. Others, crowding; a strange man she did not know, and a young one, a baby. She wanted to yell for them to stay out of this, to bark and snip, but was it even her authority to say so?
Decidedly, it was, the very night Silvertongue had laid herself out in full to her. 
Cold eyes now fall upon Germanicus; a fallen eagle, sullen; and then to Silvertongue, whose pain pulsed and echoed and Wren swore she felt it in the roots of the grass and trees. Germanicus, an ugly pause as her lip curls upward, a slow, hissing growl coming on. you remember what I said-- what I said to you, right? fuck, if she wasn't still so weak—