Whitefish River some unconscious stream of twisted logic

sorry for the wait ;a;
meta phone post oop

The pale mother said nothing for several moments, partly because she took her time to clean up the letting that had come of her daughter’s sore — which, when uncovered, earned the young shrike a knitting of brows that was likewise wince and concern. She drew away after lingering some, and finally set the sullied moss down with a quiet  “I should hope so, miriel.”

Against such a beast, though, hope seemed quite the fickle thing. 

After glancing to Isilmë once more, aloof features tinged with a faint uneasiness, airgetlám went about gathering said yarrow from before; kneading and scuffing the green material it between her paws as if worrying at uncomfortable bedding  (for lack of motar, pestal, and sapien hands.)  “This,”  she huffed, a bit winded, to both inform and distract from pain and thought,  “is yarrow. I am crushing it, to put it onto your gums. Ze taste is strong, but, I wish I had something better, more bitter for you, so that you will not lick it off.”