Deepwood Weald giggle at a funeral

kalyska listened, her hazel eyes flicking toward the unseen mountain as he spoke of his young. there was something steady in his voice, something warm. It was… different from what she had known.  

you… choose this? she asked, tilting her head slightly. not blood, but still yours?

it was not said with doubt, only curiosity. among her own, bonds were often made by duty, by what was expected. this—choosing to stay, to raise—felt like a thing of the heart.  

she hesitated, then answered his first question. come from far, where once stood many tree now cover in ash. a hard place. a pause. not… kind like here.