Whitefish River and the ships are left to rust

snatches

She’d been discomfit with the lack of — the impending arrival of the harvest did little to coax any good in her countenance at the foreseeable cold. All the herbalist could do was bite her marked lip, regardless of how much she longed for the chill once more, and so she had left the copses by the Whitefish’s many-forked tongues and made to return.

However — the grey loomer. The likewise pained. She’d come to the riverlands, she’s heard, and the silver hadn’t spoken a word since their initial meeting.

With a muted curse that was more hiss than anything — at all the dreary this one female made bearable — the pale herald rerouted the path which she deemed threadable. Wound a new one; a more silent one, for as Aurëwen eventually arrived to the shrouded huntress, she pressed herself low and into shadow. But she was small, quite small, and only offered a flicker of her gaze towards the once-wandering in greeting.

As once upon a time in Diaspora, perhaps Dawn might see the advantage of her diminutive figure ... whenever and if they would strike.