Redsand Canyon her flesh held the scent of honeysuckle drenched in battle

The druid leans into his touch as if starved for contact, caressing the length of his muzzle with her own and stretching to nuzzle the good side of her face against his chest momentarily - breathing deeply as if to imprint the scent of him upon her senses. Had she been able, she might've wrapped thin arms about his neck. 

Awen leans into him as the warlord helps her up, drawing back from her unconscious invasion of his space. She tries to focus on the hushed thunder of his timbres as she finds her balance. 

Her head tips back and ever back, as if faced with the goliaths of druidic lore, uninjured orb of moonlight intent upon the sunrays of the Grandmaster's gaze - which seem to be the only thing tethering her to the present with the pull of their gravity. 

"Who? ..who vould do zat?" she asks dazzedly, the idea almost inconceivable in that moment. 

She did not know if Donovan had any enemies; even if he did, it didn't make sense that they would target her. Why hurt a woman he had met once before, when it would bring him more pain to torture someone closer to him like another Saint? 

And her enemies? She blanched as two came to mind, gooseflesh prickling beneath her fur. 

"I know of only two men who vould do something like zis," she murmured softly, the familiar pain between her thighs evidence enough that it had been a man. "My former mate - Aliroth. Or Takeshi, Emperor of ze Vale ta ze nort'."

"But vhy bring me 'ere? I do nae understand zat," she murmured, uncertain of who her true attacker might be, eye gazing warily out upon the night. 

Only one thing was certain: someone had been watching them.