Hoshor Plains im an object in motion

Two toned eyes looked to her sister, one of her ears twitching, face impassive. Vairë did not know her sister’s struggle with her intended’s reputation, nor would she claim to.

But she thought her words would be appreciated, at some point.

Trust, once it is lost, is hard to win back. She started, halting with a probe of her tongue to the back of her teeth.

You do not know her, I do not think. She left before you were born, before you could form memory of her. My mother, the one who bore me, is not Kukutux. She is named Lótë, and she left me twice. Neither time did she tell me goodbye. The words were stilted with the hurt that still boiled beneath her skin, a raging storm that quelled by the day.

If someone told me that she had changed, that she would not leave again, I would not trust it. Not until she proved it to me, without doubt, without shame. Because she has proved in the past she is willing to harm without thinking. She took a step closer to her sister, a little smile on her face.

Show anaa that your intended is not another Lótë, not another sea-hawk man who will love you and leave. Words are empty, Ariadne, and can be easily twisted. Actions are where true intentions lie.