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for Iokav :D!!

skill: heartbroken 1/5

when wren wakes this morning, it's her mother's sweet citrus scent that she thinks of first thing. her rich laughter, how it would echo like birdsong and could put a smile on the face of anyone. the warmth of her belly when she pressed her face into her ribs; her heartbeat, the way it would patter softly in her ears.

when she opens her eyes, she's alone, and her chest doesn't feel any lighter.

it's not as bad as it was in the first few weeks, all things considered. the nightmares, the vomiting, the staring off into space. but that same heaviness is still there. she swallows it all down during the day for as long as she can until it eats her alive in the night — fits of sobbing, miserable, childish tears that no one else is around to hear nor soothe. last night was no different. her head is still reeling from it.

how do you move on? why does the world keep spinning when you don't want it to?

for a long while, she sits in silence, staring at the rustling trees and listening to the cold rush of the morning wind. eventually, when she finds the strength, she gets up and stretches her legs, because she can think of little else to do other than to survive another day.

Skill 1/5

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His travels have brought him to stand before an old, rickety structure of which is unknown to he. It carries the faintest, oldest scent of man — there'd been few times he'd crossed such a smell before, perhaps when he was younger and could travel farther — that's leeched into rain-rotted wood. A home of sorts, or that's what he can gather.

It's not within his interest to travel inside of the strange human-den; his sights are set upon a grove of over-grown herbs that blossom in the fertile grounds outside. They are untouched, save for a critter taking an occasional nibble from a bud, and teeming. A medicinal gold mine of which he humbly allowed himself to harvest. Not all, in case other wayward travelers take interest, but most.

His pale nose fondled the stalks of yarrow, feverfew, blazing star. The pouch slung across slender shoulders, crudely put together from an old hide of a doe, is well-loved and stuffed nearly full of whatever he collected. Rays of light that'd peeked through the tree corner above warm his back, and a gentle breeze brings him the scent of a stranger...

Typically, unless his healing touch was needed, he would've kept to himself. He's never been an amicable man that prided himself in conversation, but...there's a sorrow in that scent that he couldn't possibly ignore.

And so when he finished collecting for his personal stash, he left the garden behind to find a young woman staring off into the distance. An air of melancholy shrouded her, and upon her hind he's taken note of deep, old scars.

She didn't need physical healing, from what he could gather. Still, he approached on the calm, and announced himself with a polite; Good morning.

skill: n/a

weary green eyes flick in the direction of a voice. deep, mellow. masculine. certainly one she's never heard before — which, to her, is a good thing.

she spots him as he draws nearer. he's tall and porcelain-pelted, with a certain roughness to his edges, and his scent is strong and herbal. he approaches with a relaxed gait and a calm tone. non-threatening, upon first glance.

wren's hackles rise no less. she frowns, her eyes hardening into dark jewels as she studies him. what could he want with her? the possibilities sit stone cold in her gut.

what's it to ya? one brow quirks. her body grows more rigid the closer he gets.