Famous Last Stand

“I was afraid,” the stranger revealed finally, remorse ripe through the quiet murmur of her voice. Eira was selfish, in a sense, for the weight of her own traumatic memories allowed her little room to apprehend the horrors that others too had faced; these set upon her now with all of the ferociousness of the wind that dragged at her knotted, matted mane; Kaos, the swamp, death. It was not that she didn’t care—the empath she channelled did feel the strange hollowness as it consumed her coloured company, could see the dullness as the luminous bars across her unusual hide, ceased. Though her conscience deep inside ached for the other’s grim plight, whatever that was, fear cemented her broken hooves to the spot and forced a flaky wall of reservation to rise right between them. The yearling nodded at that point, partly accepting the words offered as truth, mostly shaking the nightmarish visions from her mind. Blue eyes, drowned in tragedy, cleared to reveal the forlorn looking stranger still standing (more or less), where she had been. The soft tendrils of hair which, before, had fallen like a sleek veil to frame her horned face now flung wildly in the wind, burdened all the while by the wetness of the thickening snow as it flurried down through gnarled, naked branches—Eira’s own hair hardly moved, glued to the thick, untidy coat lining her neck with thistles and filth. “I have a home here,” the orphan's thoughts mentioned after a fair time spent staring, studying. “It is safe. There are others.” The face of Roscorro sprang forth into her mind and she shared it—the gentleness of the giant’s fair expression, a private moment between them when Vynter had been missing and she’d searched the waterlogged shoreline beneath his protective eye. Eira added kindly, “I limp too.”

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