SKILL : - - - ( 1 / 5 )

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Set same day as, but after, the pack meeting

She knew he gave her that stick.

Ever since their trip to Northfall, Nausicaa had been toting around that carefully manicured stick, whetting it against anything by way of battering. While Fable hadn't been able to get her fire-coated daughter to admit Shiloh gave it to her, she knew. She could tell from the way her brother acted as though he did not know anything about sharpening sticks into swords when she asked him about it.

He had most certainly been blessed with a certain talent for managing to nettle her even now that they were adults - or did all brothers possess that ability?

Begrudgingly, she accepted the sword as a part of familial inventory, though she had quickly warned against using it on her sisters. Hopefully, that would keep everyone's ankles and eyes safe.

The jury remained in deliberation on that front.

Fable found herself pondering the many ways the sword could "take an adventure" as she completed her rounds for the day - but ultimately, she decided against it. Regardless of her own views of violence, she did not want to starve Nausicaa of her passion... even if said passion involved beating things up - perhaps Shiloh could make himself useful by showing her restraint as her capabilities grew.

Nausicaa had been injured during the tourney and it tore Fable's heart to pieces to see her daughter in anything less than robust health. She would rather it be her own blood spilled than any of her daughters', but fate had a twisted way of always refusing her that preference. Always, it took, but never from the right place.

She sought out her warrior princess of a daughter, feeling a need to check in on her. Two of her daughters remained missing yet, but she held out a sterling hope that they were with Archon and would return. Fable had decided she would need to tell her daughters to be mindful of their wandering; she did not want to stimy or smother them, but she wanted to know they were well.

Croí fiáin (Irish: wild heart)? Fable summoned her with her pet name, navigating her way through the peeking long grasses as she followed her daughter's trail.

Today, the firestar was particularly agitated. It seemed she was constantly in some way angry, drawing up from some bitter place in her gut that was sure to spill over soon. It made her brazen. It made her rage. Every tick of her heartbeat in that cut on her neck made her teeth grind.

So, she hid.

Her paws cut scores out of the earth. Dirt flew out from behind her squatted stance, landing in a growing pile behind her. She wasn’t even digging for any reason in particular. She was just digging. That white capped tail rose like a cobra above her, both beacon and warning. And, of course, the sword ever present beside her feet. She looked at it every once in a while, just to make sure it was still there, before she was back to kicking up clouds of dirt.

So focused was she, in fact, that her mother’s voice reached her moments too late. She snapped down into the hole she’d made, flattening herself to its depth. Then, she inched up to grab the sword and drag it in with her. Maybe if she was lucky, Fable wouldn’t even see her. And Nausicaa wouldn’t have to explain why she was digging.