#oelun

The mage wandered through Reunion. She wandered most places, even when she had a determined destination. Her clothing covered her head to toe, the only things poking out were the tips of her horns and a few loose locks of hair. With the weather getting colder, the wind bit at her nose and her fingertips, but the chill was merely a convenient explanation for the real reason she started dressing so much more modestly. 

Today she looked for someone in particular, and she found her. The pale scaled Qestiri woman who currently seemed entirely stumped by a wagon wheel that would turn backwards but not forwards. Qatirna approached, stomping her feet slightly so as to not startle the woman as she announced her presence, and looked at the same wagon wheel before shaking her head softly. She knew a little about carpentry. She didn’t know shit about wagons. 

The Qestir looked hopeful for a moment, then a little disappointed. Her hands gestured to the wagon as if to throw it away, then imitated building a fire. They could use the wagon for scrap. She smiled softly, just enough to see her cheeks perking up beneath her mask. The mage offered a flame on the palm of her hand as if to help, then snuffed it out with a fist as she giggled. The masked grin now showed a little more prominently on the Qestir’s cheeks.

Qatirna’s smile dropped a bit and a nervous expression took its place. She had something she wanted to talk about. Oelun stopped her fidgeting with the wheel and guided the mage to some crates nearby they could comfortably sit on. 

At first Qatirna expressed that she was injured, shyly exposing her horn to the surprisingly unbothered prim and proper woman. She’d seen her own brother break his horns innumerable times. She even offered to wrap the horn for Qatirna, who accepted gratefully. And while Oelun treated the broken horn, softly hushing the mage should she wince or cry out - which at times she did, Qatirna attempted to explain what happened.

Oelun didn’t appear angry, or even judgmental. She seemed relieved that everyone involved came out alive. And in turn that relief flooded Qatirna, who hadn’t known how the Qestir would respond to the story. 

They sat for a time, a strange silent comfort in their shared presence, a gentle warmth radiated between them. Then the Qestir changed the subject. She glanced over shrewdly at the tribeless Xaela and curled a finger around her ring finger, a Western symbol of marriage. They both knew who the Qestir was thinking of, she’d asked about him before. 

Qatirna’s eyes widened in response to the inquiry, the color might have drained from her skin before, but today it brightened, her cheeks warming and adding another shade of pink to her already tawny red skin. She shook her head in short quick movements, with a shy grin as she watched for Oelun’s reaction. There was no new news. No changes in status.

Oelun looked... unamused. Though not necessarily judgmental. She repeated a motion that she made when they *talked* about this before, waving her hand down and back up like a graph and then looking at Qatirna with a knowing expression. She could choose whether or not to stay miserable and locked away in the past, or to let herself be happy.

Qatirna blushed a little more. Oelun was right, but just because she understood that truth didn’t mean she understood how to live it. She reached behind her neck to scratch at the scales beneath her hairline, then shrugged and looked back at Oelun. She mimicked the Qestir’s gesture from before, indicating her ring finger and then giving a pointed look to the pale woman. What about *her*?