Dragoncrest Cliffs we are still trained killers

the saint shivers as the stranger from within the borders approaches.

if she is startled by the way in which he and the red furred woman who comes not soon after each take a shoulder and guide her within their borders, there is no room to show it. no room to really feel it. even as everything in her wants to push away from the help.

want to be strong enough to do it on her own.

but she is not.

a soft sniffle leaves her — of sorrow at her own continued failures, at the stinging rejection of the sirens of the sea — as she walks between the two, too weak to even ask what a 'roja den' was.