It was only two days since the blood and war had subsisted, and still the scent of misery and death claimed the land. Yet with it lingered the sense of freedom, overshadowed only by the high cost it had taken them. In the tree hut Ralla busied herself with organizing the herbs and medicines she had gotten from Mizu as well as trying to calm her nerves. The past two days she had been too preoccupied with the clean-up of the tribe itself, but now that most of it was taken care of or overtaken by those more able, her attentions were turned towards home. Still her youngest children were not home, but her eldest had tried her nerves enough for all four of them to might as well still be home through all the ruckus. It was a wonder that Ralla was not a single ball of nerves in form as well.

Ayasha was present, but Ralla was struggling how to start what she wanted to say. In truth, she was angry at her daughter for being so willful and rash during the war: Ralla had wanted her away from it from the beginning, but Ayasha had done the exact opposite and put herself in harm's way at every turn. What did that say about Ralla as a mother? That she could not control her children or discipline them well? That she was too easy? That she did not care about their safety? All of these she would scream to be untrue, but she had certainly not acted as her instincts wished; instead, she had let her daughter do as she pleased, and run rampant when she pleased it. But she could not hold that against the small girl entirely; she was getting older, and thus had the freedom to make her own decisions. But perhaps it was because Ralla had so infrequently enforced the rules that she found the few she wanted to say ignored. All things in consideration, this would have to change. Of course, she knew this would not be easy; change was never easy...

Ayasha? Does anything hurt? she asked softly as she turned to look at her daughter. She was sure there were no serious injuries, but Ralla herself was a tad sore from the battle still, and worried more for her daughter who had been in the serious fray from the get-go. But she saw her daughter--adopted, but just as much blood as her youngest three--in her white pelt, looking proud and brave despite there being no current call for such a countenance. Ralla supposed it just came naturally to the girl: the Great Fire lived in her, too.

Moon walks. Moon talks. Moon thinks.