She watches Ciri from afar, from the frigid shadows. Snow drifts quietly down in sparse flakes while Pad watches her new friend talk to the Isle’s long time leader, Leilan. The graying paint mother has never met him, but his name’s been uttered in her presence before, and the festival he hosted not long ago made him all the more recognizable to Padme. She watches carefully, tentative, cautious, timid even – it’s her baby that makes her act this way, like a fallow deer in a grove of hungry wolves. Her muscles are tight and her ears upright, her nostrils flared and quivering as she breathes as quietly as she can. Mourna trembles at her side, cold and alarmed by her mother’s anxiety.
“Good?” she asks Ciri once the mare comes near, when she’s done with Leilan. Padme speaks quietly, trying to steady her voice; it seems the stallion did not yell or offend, so this is a good sign. Ciri’s body language seems to tell her things went fine, that Leilan is an acceptable individual, and nothing is off, but she wants to here her say it.
Once she’s sure he’s okay. That here is suitable, that Mourna will be accepted and safe, she will go forward and meet him. She’s ever grateful that Ciri went first, boldly, without any fear or nervousness at all – a warrior, like Pad’s freckled mother. “Thank you.” she whispers. 'Thank you for the company, for meeting him first, for becoming an unassuming partner'.
PADMÉ
the high black water, the devil's daughter
the high black water, the devil's daughter
@[Ciri] here we go
