500+
Briefly, she had left Onus with the pups. She knew that the pups were safe with him, safer perhaps than with her. And she granted them the few moments of privacy that seemed so rare. There was marginal concern that was lifted within her, however, as she recalled the words that Haku had thrown at her, his seething words cooled by his gelid heart. She could not ask Onus to stay away from Dahlia, but she did not want to risk his safety. Indeed, she had proclaimed to the Lilium that Onus would not be found, but the warrior was not so arrogant as to assume that such a thing were impossible. She knew of Chaos and of its interjection into the workings of Fate.
The woad-marked fae had simply gone on a run. She did so more often than she once had, intent upon keeping loose the wound upon her thigh that was now a hindrance. There was mild discontent within her, but she did not keep her grudge upon it knowing that it could not be changed. She worked only to make it less hindering upon her body’s need to sing the songs of War, and that was all that she could do. Having returned with silent, fluid steps, she watched from afar as the coyote engaged in playful behavior. A soft smile graced the woman’s maw, her eyes softening at the scene that unfolded before her. But it was shattered by a black shadow, a pied form, and a harsh call. Her heart caught in surprise—the call was not from her Dream but from the world around her. That voice was one she knew well. A dark, flickering flame passed through her as she remembered what the bird had done, but when she beheld the Raven’s form, she knew that it must be forgiven, for he, as she, had been a mere puppet of Fate. That shattered bill spoke more loudly than words or the voice of the bird could tell. But already the coyote had snatched the Raven from the air, and she knew immediately his intent.
"Onus—no!" Within her voice there was a hint concern—or was it a stronger emotion. That marring emotion, regardless of its near absence, within the tranquility of her voice caused the twins to pause, their ears lifted as they listened, a question in their eyes. The black and white orbs fell first upon their mother and then upon the bird that had only seconds before been captured by their father. Both heads cocked simultaneously—they wondered what was wrong. Cwmfen’s posture seemed to hesitate, as if she wished to move forth but was held back by unseen threads, her right hand reaching out towards the bird. But she did not move forward, for she did not wish to provoke surprise or struggle within either creatures before her. The white orbs were locked upon the bird, his single eye riveting to find the keeper of that voice as he continued to struggle. She watched the wings of that large, pied bird beat against the air, and she listened to that sound. The woad bound ears adjusted slightly to catch the individual beats, and to catch again the reverberations within the air. That brief moment between two strokes seemed an eternity, and yet it was but a mere moment, a passing of time. Her eyes, that wild ferocity perhaps marginally wilder, shifted to the coyote, and her body twitched imperceptibly, itching to move forward.