Bearclaw Valley oh brother, our blood was so thick

indra's gaze momentarily traced over poet's form; a brief inspection, almost clinical in its quickness -- she looked in decent enough weight, sported no injuries, and the aspect of unease that had shrouded the agouti woman before seemed lifted. she nodded her head in acknowledgement as poet spoke, understanding fully the implications that transpired when one overthought. she was just as guilty of such habits -- something that poet likely would have been able to detect.

it was good, in indra's mind, that poet had found her place here. sometimes all it took for a piece to fall into place was for a pawn to shift, or a friendship to form -- perhaps poet had found her own blondine or laurel, and that served as the tether to keep her thoughts grounded from overwrought flight.

an ear pulled back and betrayed indra's feelings as poet inquired after her; she was used in some ways to deflection, and while she was guilty of indulging in her own over-processing of events, was not the type to freely share the inner workings of her mind with anyone except laurel. she rolled her shoulders and a frown thinned her lips, but she answered in her own way: "laurel is pregnant."

it may not have been a direct answer, but it was an honest one -- and was, by and large, the most troubling thing that occupied indra's thoughts.