Wapun Meadow water become wine

a noise — though initially not close enough to be entirely discernible — draws a small percentage of the soturi's attention and is just as quickly whisked away by the self-made assumption that it was one of the pronghorns. it is arrogance, no stranger to wintersbane, that allows him the second assumption that he is alone in this meadow; that he is the only one seeking refuge among the trees. he is a creature born of pride and arrogance and it chides him now at the sound of nearing footfalls, chastising him at the sound of a sneeze.

she is nearer than he first thought now; and he peers around, glacial eyes scanning the immediate landscape to fall upon her. the slyph stands in stark contrast to the dark hues of the shaded forest world around them; cotton and cream and fawn. pretty, he thinks and is immediately reminded of one of the women he spent a very brief but blissful time with. her pale blue eyes rimmed with red. wintersbane, no medic, knows nothing to alleviate her suffering and so offers her a sort of sheepish look and a soft chuff of greeting.