[P] so much twisted time

The fact that she had a basket at all made her want to vomit. Symre traipsed through the centre of the Ruins with it strung up over her shoulder, her scratched arms exposed to the crisp winter air. She refused to attend the clinic, and instead spent a considerable amount of time poking and prodding. She was no medic, and Symre refused to be reminded by anyone that the reason she was injured was due to the usurping.

The thought of it had her grinding her teeth as she walked, though she forced the expression away as she came upon the Erilaz’s door.

His barn was woodsy, surrounded by the wild forest and the rich scent of donkey and pine. She scratched behind her ear before knocking on the door. Symre wasn’t sure when she had decided that this seemed a good idea, perhaps deep down it was some way to curry favor, or to prove beyond a doubt that she was useful at something. Seeing Clementine sneer over her was burned into her memory – and O’Riley was an ample distraction.

She followed him sometimes or collected pieces of his fur from trees that he had rubbed against.

On the stoop she flared her nostrils and rocked on her heels as she waited.

He smelled wonderful.


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᛫ ᚻᛖᛞᛄ ᛫ ᚹᛁᛏᚳ᛫

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