Chimera Fields We're on our way

The bristling was not unexpected. In her youth, Moor might have reeled back or hackled herself, but the seasoned warrior saw no threat in the pair. An expecting mother and an overprotective father had no reason to attack her if she didn't give them one. And, scarred and wartorn as the erne appeared, her body language was friendly enough.

"Keep your fish," she insisted, eyeing the leftovers with an almost critical air. "It is good for the babies. They arrive healthy and strong when you are fat with fish."

Her burgundy gaze trailed toward the warier of the pair.

"I am Moorhen," she told them. "Moor. Traveling also. But you are með barn. With baby. Do you travel far?"

The woman's concern was evident, but not overbearing. She had no wish to direct the pair, nor scold them for being adrift when she thought they should have settled long before — but she saw a chance to offer support and she took it.