Swiftcurrent Creek made your mark on me, a golden tattoo

Eshe had become Quill—perhaps a strange concept to the man, but the way that grief clung to her from the loss of her father, it was understandable, of not slightly endearing to him. Changing her name despite not truly understanding why her father had referred to her as such in his final days seemed cathartic to her—and so he did his best to abide by her, and comfort her in these darker days of her sorrow.

At times, he idly wondered if he should be checking in on his parents and siblings—or, at least, send a messenger to them, and check on their well-being.

Akavir held his wife when he could—many times over the course of the few days since the news, she had cried herself to sleep in his arms. This day was no different, and the man found himself dozing as well, knowing he would soon need to do another round along the borders.

She jolted and he found himself waking. Pulling her closer, he pressed his muzzle closer to the side of her nape, feeling the tension begin to roil in her body—and waiting for her to either lend voice to what was on her mind, or go back to sleep.