Sunspire Mountains i hope your dreams dry like raisins in the baking sun

There wouldn’t be a day that Aurëwen wasn’t grateful for wolves who chose not to gawk, and so the male’s absent assessment of her own hurts was recieved with a lax flicker of ears. As Isilmë had mistaken him for the father, so had the little shieldmaiden’s mother; alas, it wasn’t their beloved warrior. It wasn’t his eyes, and it certainly wasn’t where his scarring would be — on the inked column of throat, and not so much the broad shoulder.

Like dearest Verx, though, this male knelt kindly to her daughter with an even kinder, less wry query. The silver said nothing for a few moments, having warily set her catch down to observe how Isilmë mingled. On her riddled façade were the barest curves of Aure’s own amusement, wondering if her moonlit babe would yell in reply, as she oft did. Then again, perhaps not.