Firefly Ravine timmy turner made money off the iraq war

She sees the other from far off. The winter night doesn’t offer much to hide if you’re anything but white while the snow reflects on moonshine. Her gait slows for a moment, uncertain what to make of another in unclaimed territory; it is few and far between she simply passes one by without having to have a conversation. It seems this time the other is intent on going, and even with an easy well met. Mallaidh nods her head slightly and tries to keep an even walk but the wound on her shoulder gives her away.

The other woman has paused and noticed, pointing in her direction. Pointed ears fall back against her head but she shifts, evening the weight on four legs now that she’s stopped. The torn muscle protests to the action but she tightens her jaw and fights it.

“Yeah,” she decides, though she knows she’s exposing her weakness but she clearly can’t hide it. She could boast, maybe, tell her the culprit is dead but the idea seems too silly. She doesn’t want to be challenged on the information when she’s down. “A wound.”