"Seraphina, is aught amiss?" Y'shtola asked, her tail flickering in concern.

Seraphina stopped dead in her tracks, strains of a familiar melody floated across the main square of Revenant's Toll. 

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied distractedly. "This song — I haven't heard it in a very long time."

Not since her mother was still alive. Seraphina smiled, letting the slow, sad music wash over her. She wasn’t sure of the origin of the tune, but it was one that her mother used to sing to her often; sometimes to help her sleep and sometimes to keep her occupied on long journeys as they travelled from city to city, never settling in one place for very long. 

A crowd was beginning to gather in the square. A few people were dancing a slow, lilting waltz as the band of minstrels continued to play. Nostalgia washed over her in gentle waves, a bitter-sweet feeling lanced her stomach. Seraphina swayed in time to the music,remembering the way it used to be when she was a child — her mother’s gentle smile and the floral scent of roses on her pillow. Always just the two of them, travelling from place to place as her mother played her lute in various taverns. 

That was, of course, until her mother died choking on her own vomit in some mouldy, battered room in the Brume. And Seraphina was left alone; a frightened and shell-shocked adolescent who had no idea where to go or what to do next. She had been lucky though, chancing across a troop of mummers who took pity on a half-starved young girl begging them to let her join them; after all she could sew — surely, they needed someone to mend their outfits? 

“Seraphina?”

She blinked at the miqo'te who was standing next to her, giving her a curious look. Seraphina smiled at her, feeling a little embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” she explained, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I was just remembering someone.”

The corners of Y’shtola’s mouth twitched in a small sad smile. No doubt her astute mind was brimming with questions, ones that Seraphina was certain she was too polite to ask. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to tell Y’shtola some of the less than happy bits of her past? After all, they were friends and the miqo’te was not prone to gossiping about people behind their backs. She could trust her. 

At that moment, Thancred was weaving his way through the crowd, looking harassed as a gaggle of angry women were following behind him. Yshtola’s lips pressed into a disapproving frown as he hurried over to them, glancing over his shoulder to ensure that he had lost his pursuers. When would he ever learn? Probably never.

 “Would you care to dance, Seraphina?” he asked, holding his hand out to her. 

“Thancred, I don’t think —”

In the periphery of her vision, she could see Y’shtola’s ears twitching, whether it was in concern or distaste, she wasn’t sure. Seraphina’s eyes flicked from Thancred’s hand to his brown eyes, warm and reassuring. He was giving her his best lop-sided smile, one she was sure he used to get into the beds of many women.