Shadowwyn Moor he beseeched him lay a hand upon fever-hot brow

@Sif

Once the warm haze of poppy wears off, she turns back on her heel, floating south. Her fading buzz takes with it the calmness with which she's accepted her lot, but the conclusion she'd reached in conversation with Mary sticks. This is an opportunity for freedom. At the time it'd seemed like a moment of clarity, a realisation that nothing truly binds her now.

But faced with it now, it feels like it should be suffocating. It is, if nothing else, too large for her to grasp so suddenly, and she suppposes she should be a little more patient with herself. There is no need to keep self-flagellating. No one is coming to judge her. She has to keep repeating that to herself: no one is coming to judge her. She has decided she will keep company with Wardruna, whatever that entails, and she wonders if she is trading in one set of sacrosanct sanctions for another. But there's no way for her to know that, not yet. 

It is snowing today, and some small piles have collected on the overturned trees in her path. What a strange and gloomy space, so different from the lushness of the fields she's passed already. Poet sighs and approaches a thin stream, lowering her head to take a drink. There is no one coming to judge you, she says aloud, under her breath, and closes her eyes.

While no one was coming to judge the ex-priestess, there was someone looking for her in the moor that day. Sif had not kept careful track of Wardruna or his friends, but when she came across one of their scents in her ranging, she thought it might be a good idea to check in with the other female.

In the cold and through the boggy, wooded area, it was a bit hard to track Wardruna's friend, but Sif eventually caught up to her and gave a low chuff in greeting, pausing several dozen yards behind so that she wouldn't crowd the other wolf.

The water is refreshing and helps take the edge of the headache that is gathering behind her temples. There is always some small retribution for your sins, she thinks, and then looks up, catching scent of the other woman. Sif, Wardruna's other companion. Poet finds her intriguing. She's very different from any other the priestess has encountered, even accounting for the obvious language barrier.

She returns the chuff, having turned to face her properly. "Sif," she greets, and sits back on her haunches, her tail curled elegantly around her toes. "How are you?" Poet asks, though she is unsure if the clay-colored woman will understand any of it. Never hurts to try, she supposes.

Sif gave a gentle wag of her tail when the other turned around and spoke a quiet greeting. A beat of silence, and then a soft breath of understanding. "I am - well," she replied, stumbling a bit over the words. At least they made sense, this time. "How are you?" Yes! Nailed it!

Keen, burgundy eyes observed the woman's stance, and then Sif settled on her haunches and did her best to copy it. Fen had taught her comportment through mimmickry, and she did not understand that her mirroring might not be well received in other situations.

It is easier now to notice details Poet was previously distracted from. A strange creature, though beautiful (the priestess has been taught to find beauty in every creature, a habit she doesn't bother trying to break now). She does not think she's seen coloring like what adorns the girl before. Sif seems to understand more than Poet initially suspected, and she offers a quiet smile in return. "I am... here," is her enigmatic answer, accompanied by a graceful shrug of silver shoulder. "It is all I can manage." 

Sif's eyes are unusual too, burgundy and sharp. She thinks she likes these mundane omens. "How long have you known Wardruna?" She asks, voice slow to allow the other time to process each word. Though mentally she has already committed to following the Northerner, whatever that entails, nonetheless she finds herself curious about his other companion. And surely they will be seeing more of each other in the days to come.

The woman responds to Sif's greeting without missing a beat. Apparently, it had been crafted well enough to be understood. But the response is not one that Sif can easily puzzle out, even with the woman speaking as slowly as she was. While Sif tries to remember if 'here' has another meaning that might relate to ones emotional or physical wellbeing, the woman goes on to ask another question - one whose meaning Sif is able to puzzle out in a few beats of silence.

"I meet - soon," she replies, not realizing that 'soon' related more to the future than to things that happened in the past. "Days before days. New." Hopefully, the woman will find her answer in one or some of these words. Sif still struggles to piece sentences together on the fly. "I... do not know... your naame," she says, her words stilted and awkward. Her burgundy eyes are anxious and downcast as she awaits an answer, nervous about admitting this to Wardruna's new friend.

It is not terribly difficult to follow Sif's words, despite the strange way they're strung together. So she has not known Wardruna as long as Poet initially suspected; perhaps it is not so surprising, given the draw the portent emanates. Or perhaps she has simply been groomed to gravitate toward mythical characters, to tend to their whims. 

Sif did not catch her name last time, it seems. The edges of her mouth lift up as she tells her "Poet," voice reassuring. She has yet to meet Wardruna's other women (nor does she know how many he has, come to think upon it) but she finds herself somewhat charmed by this enigmatic foreigner. She leans forward slightly, expression mischevious. "Why did you join Wardruna?" Poet asks after taking a moment to decide the simplest way to phrase it. She's very aware of her personal failings, but intrigued to know what would cause someone else to consent to Wardruna's particular vision of home. What exactly he will ask of all of them she is not sure yet but she cannot imagine a man collecting the companionship of women with no interest in laying with any of them (thoughts she will, of course, keep to herself for now).

"Po-et," Sif repeated, wagging her tail. She remembered that word being tossed around a lot during their first meeting, but the girl had not realized it was a name. She shot Poet a shy look, now, hoping the other would not think her stupid for not cottoning on more quickly.

Her next question, luckily, is one that Sif understood almost at once. Why Wardruna? "Selskap," she chirped in reply. And then, after a short pause. "Um. Friends? Union? For to... beskyttelse. Um... Care for." She was beginning to confuse herself, and her words came out in a sad jumble. Shooting Poet an apologetic look, she took a deep, shivery breath and tried again. "Together are strong. Alone is sad."

The way it rolls off Sif's tongue, po - et, charms her, and she offers a smile briefly. There is something almost childlike about the russet-coated woman, a naiveté that does not frustrate her but does not inspire confidence. She does not understand the words Sif uses but takes them to be part of whatever language is her native tongue (and wonders, briefly, if Wardruna shares a tongue with her. They had spoken to each other, no?)

"Alone is sad," she agrees. Poet had never experienced solitude until her exile from the temple. Loneliness, yes; feeling set apart from the rest, perhaps, is what inspired her eventual downfall. As if she were watching from behind a pane of glass. 

Hm. The sinner stretches out slightly, moving closer to Sif. "He will protect us?" She queries, less to find an answer for herself and more to probe the closeness between the portent and his woman. 

If Poet found her childish, it was probably because Sif was, for all intents and purposes, still a child. She was of age, of course - ten months had passed since the time of her birth. But she'd spent so much time alone and so little time actually growing that she found herself a bit behind the times at present, even with her yearling status fast approaching. Probably, she would continue to be childish for the forseeable future. Perhaps she would never find a solid place in the ranks of adulthood.

"Ja," she agreed, bobbing her head at Poet's question. "He says... he will be nice, and take caare of me. But I can take care." She was not casting her lot in with Wardruna solely for protection. "Want friends," she explained. "Pack. Family."

She laid down across from Poet and stretched her paws out toward the older woman in a childish, entreating gesture. "Are you family?" she asked, tail whisking hopefully behind her.

sorry for the wait!

 There is something so guileless and so charming about her, Poet cannot help but be taken. She hums in response to Sif's answer, moving closer so that she may lay across from her, their paws touching. "I can be family," she says, voice solemn. It is not a declaration that she makes lightly. The blasphemer has never known family in the true sense of the word - she has known duty and loyalty, pledge and oath. She does not know her bloodline and she never will. But perhaps she can forge a new one here, with Sif, with Wardruna and his women. "Take care," she murmurs thoughtfully, more to herself. "We can take care."

"Hva?" asked Sif, momentarily confused by Poet's repetition of her own words. After a moment, though, she realized that the older woman was simply murmuring to herself, as the introspective often did. Sif settled in and turned patient, expectant eyes on her elder, waiting until her input would be welcomed once again. She was pleased to be able to understand the conversation pretty well, thus far, and was quick to offer a response as soon as it seemed appropriate.

"Together!" she chirped, equally pleased by the notion that they would take care of each other. Sif hoped that 'together' would please Poet as well.

sorry for the wait! wanna wrap here?

She smiles widely, eyes crinkling slightly at the other. There is plenty left unknown, but Poet did not have any grand schemes as is. She'd already destroyed the path fate originally designed for her. Embracing the unknown seems to be the only thing left to do. "Together," she agrees, and reaches to gently brush her nose against Sif's forehead, a chaste gesture that mirrors her earlier vow to Wardruna. There's no turning away now.