Hideaway Strath calling to join them the wretched and joyful

"I vill not lie an' say that it is alright," the sylph murmured softly with a swish of her fluffy tail, "but I can say zat I forgive ye." Timidly, she allowed a faint smile to tug at her lips -- an olive branch of reconciliation. They wouldn't be striding through the Strath side-by-side, cutting the breeze and getting on as besties, anytime soon. But perhaps they could find an alliance of sorts between themselves. "I train an' I vill go into battle vith villingness to die for those I fought alongside. I vould like to know if those I vould give my life fer vould also do ze same fer me, regardless of my pelt." The ghastly waif blinked solemn moonstones as her muzzle canted in a vague dip, expression unreadable. 

The blanchard leaned back, ears pinning in an instinctive tic as the woman promptly sat -- as if that could physically halt her body's estrous cycle -- and denied what Aerin had said, having taken the words literally. "Peace be, ag scáthú," the once-druid soothed in a rasping lilt, berry tongue sweeping along her chops anxiously. "I only meant it is vhat 'appens  vhen a voman is ready to breed. It does nae mean ye 'ave to 'ave children -- I doubt anyone 'ere vould make ye do something ye don't vant to."

And then, as if she had considered the alternative, the fae glanced down with a frown. Her eyes moved back to Whrist's colorless ones after a second, the healer giving a firm nod as she swore: "An' if they do, I vill tear their throats out."