Duck Lake god loves you, but not enough to save you

could work as a RO, but open in case someone feels like hopping in! just feel the need to word vomit while i have the muse

Riverclan had been kind to her; the bittersweet sharpness of Silvertongue, a young bird wrapped in silk. Allowing her a tour and dealing with her blunders, the legs that were much too large for her own body. 
And now, she was faced with the grave ordeal of going home. Things with Akavir have been so goddamn awkward. Frankly, she wished she could hide her face from him; be nothing but a body, assist in the witchhunt with no words to say to him. Oh, lord, and the brat, who she was sure would have questions for her in that whiny little baby voice. And where the hell was Arric, in all of this? 
Home was the last place she wanted to go, but the longer she stalled, the worse it got. It was necessary, lest they assume she abandoned them. 
So begrudgingly, she goes on her way; a lowness to her gait that reeks of shame, of the men and women she'd encountered and danced with. She reaches the nearby lake around sundown, and only for now, she'd allow herself a break. 

When she sees her reflection, she thinks of Marcus. Her man of the forest. His gentle arms, the warmth of his voice, those marigold eyes that crease at the corners when he smiles. How scared he was of hurting her, of betraying her; the way she let him do it anyways.
She sees the sharp edges of her father in her jaw, the shape of his nostrils, the curve of his ears. But she also sees the dove's wing fur of her mother, the warm brown eyes, the willingness to bend for the will of a man.  
She is the child of chaos, the child of unending destruction, and of silence in the face of death.
It's then that she thinks of Reverie too, the daydreamer in the weald, the seasalt brine on the petals of a sunflower. The sorrowful cries that echo in her mind, even now. She wishes she could have hugged her, told her in wordless gestures that she understands more than she could have realized. She hopes she isn't alone. 

Wren swipes a beaten paw at the lake's water, and watches as her reflection ripples and dissipates, only to come together once more. The sun has long since gone, and the moon stares back at her with steel daggers.
Maybe she should go home now. 

it was easy, to move sans weight of a nourished form, step on pebbles like a shadow cast by glaring sister moon - yes, she were quiet, and so! just so, that when she made herself known, it was with a warm breath that ruffled the fur along the palepelt nape.

odd fishing, gjørmkvinne.

have creepy stranger, pregnant lady 

god bless you for giving me a "mean bitch wren" opportunity, creepy stranger

Swiveling on a dime at the feeling of sour breath at her nape, Wren is quickly returned to reality. Blinking away the remnants of her haze, she faces the strange woman with a grimace, lip curled tight. 
Can I help you? It came out a lot snappier than she normally would have intended for it to, but when startled with witch's hands that wrap around your jaw, you're going to be a little disgruntled. Jesus H. Christ. Manners, lady, you got 'em? 

screechy little chuckle as she retreated from the offended, worm-tainted mudgirl.

we think is you needing help, gjørmkvinne. mockery on her lips. her paws carried her further back than would be needed for mannerful talk, until she blended with the dark again, a pair of crimson eyes and a sharp shape rimmed with silverlight. 

fish sleep now, don't you know?

She is unphased beyond the growing sting of annoyance, hooded eyes and teeth that glimmer with spit. First warning. Non parlo vichingo, she spits out, a snarky curl to the corner of her mouth. If foreign words are thrown in her face as a means of trying to scare her, she would offer her own with venom laced in between. You in Kvarsheim or somethin'? Vaffanculo.
Shuffling with discomfort, Wren rises to her feet, beginning to move in the direction of home. The stranger does not leave her sight, and in the rim of indigo that shields her, she can see the stranger's emaciated form, like a rotten carcass that rose from the dead. 
Wait a second. 
One eye twitches as she takes a thunderous step forward; slowly, she begins to circle. O sei tu la strega? 

words in a speech ravens didn't know. sting of annoyance curdled her lips shut, that meaning would be concealed from she, the once spell-speaker.

her grin shone clear white. a word in her language intrigued the svartravn.

kvarsheim? she purred like a choking cat, loping after the mudwoman. what was the home of quartz?

the mudwoman halted, the madwoman did too, expecting a reply.

a turn, a step, a prowl.

red eyes shone as they tracked the mudwoman until she walked past their corners. the madwoman, with belief only madwomen hold, sat down, tail thumping softly.

strega? we don't know the word.

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Oh, don't play fuckin' dumb, It comes out like a clap of thunder, a flash of lightning; white-knuckled grip on the gravel shore. There's a hoot of laughter, ugly and cynical. How typical. you know exactly who you are. You've been torturing the shit outta my Valley with your stupid hexes, eh? Wagglin' your skinny little fingers and castin' little spells? 
Coy, coy, coy she was, that impish little tail wag only pushing Wren further over the edge of rage. Of course it's me who ends up dealing with this bitch. What're you gonna do, say something in your spooky little viking language and damn me to Hell? She's leering, now, face pressed close as tongue runs over teeth. Get the fuck away from me. You don't even know what's comin' to yah. 

Wouldn't it be so embarrassing if she were harassing an assumedly-innocent passerby who just happened to be creepy looking? Good thing she's not doing that. 

Right?

the red widened, until at the edges, sickly white rimmed it.

but the tail did not cease thumping.

if anything, it accelerated to match the vigor of the worm-ridden.

you are coming to us. she pointed out, then her thoughts jumbled, ten cats chasing twenty mice into thirty holes. 

her chin proudly lifted. and our name is not hel. we are named by bror honey-gazed, who is of the river's clan. a name of long sounds, tucked close to her heart.