WC: 389
There was a peace about the white woman that she hadn't felt since her sister's death three weeks hence. In all the days between that fateful moment and a mere few days ago, Bris hadn't shed a single tear. Her grief had been bottled up inside her, eating away at her soul like a creeping poison. But Conor had changed that. His simple mannerisms and words had opened the floodgates of her soul on that day in the greenhouse, and it still amazed Bris just how much his silent support had meant to her. In letting her cry, in letting her show him that vulnerable soul that still existed within her, Conor had healed her more than time alone or misplaced thoughts of vengeance ever could.
A soft song was hummed quietly as the Stormbringer woman simply wandered her homeland. The satchel she was hardly ever without was slung over her snowy shoulder, its leather form held closely to her left side so as not to irritate the still-healing wound on her right. Her palms had healed enough for the yearling to finally stop wearing the protective bandages on them, but the gash across the right side of her torso and ribs was taking a bit longer. The bandages that wrapped around her body were fresh, and the last few dressings had seen a decrease in dried blood caked on them, which was encouraging. Cotl's sword hadn't cut very deep at all, but the awkward placement of the injury had made it annoyingly slow in repairing itself.
As Bris came near the sound of running water, her song faded into the natural music of the stream. Its refreshing song called to the yearling, and she smiled to realize that she wasn't the first to be charmed by its melody. The black woman already within its embrace was slightly familiar to the young Stormbringer, like a ghostly echo from a long ago memory. She wasn't sure if she'd ever met the strangely-marked figure, but her scent held a hint of familiarity scattered around Dahlia's territory in the past. "Mind if I join you?" If the black woman wished for privacy, Bris wouldn't take it personally and she would respect that. After all, there were plenty of other streams and ponds where she could rinse the grime from her own form.
Table by Marishka!
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