Lion Head Mesa Wet Hands

Eira’s heart twisted as if struck by a cruel hand, her grief mocked in such a careless manner. It felt like a slap to the face, and for a brief moment, her composure faltered, her expression clouded with the raw pain that coursed through her. But, with the air of a lady gathering the folds of her skirts, she straightened, her chin lifting in quiet dignity. She stepped back, her trembling paws carefully collecting her belongings, though her chest still ached with the weight of unshed tears.

I do pray, she began softly, her voice quivering, that if you have children, such a fate never befalls them. That you never know the pain of burying your baby.

Her words carried the power of a genuine blessing, though they wavered ever so slightly, betraying the thin thread holding her emotions in check. She dipped her head gracefully, though the turmoil inside her still threatened to spill over.

I shall seek assistance elsewhere. I thank you kindly for your time.