She’s not fit for war; for battle —
and yet there she was; fighting instead of fleeing like the others.
& yet saving her friends.
It would have been better, perhaps. Would have saved the songstress her wounds; blood trickling forth from injured side. And yet there, ‘pon her pale visage, was the widest smile ever seen. Still polite; feminine, almost like at any moment Ri’s expression could shatter with just a pluck. But it was still present; still quite lovely. Elowyn knew the wound was worth it. That Ri felt she had did her part.
They sit together, chatting away as the healers scramble about to tend inflictions. The Herald’s brow aches from the stitches, but they are no more than a pester. Ignoring the pain, she leans back against the stone wall, listening to the excited chatter of her blonde companion. It was surely not the singer’s first fight, but surely the worst. Such a petite girl, and yet the way she dove into the fray was admirable. Perhaps even moral-boosting.
‘Did you see that guy with the axe? Took him down with the frying pan!’ She exclaims with almost child-like wonder, and the elf cannot help but laugh.
❝A frying pan? What were you going to do? Scramble him some eggs?❞
Teasingly spoken, it entices a wider smile from the other, who eagerly shakes her head. ‘Course not! Whacked him right up side his head! Out like a light!'
With tender sigh, an arm loops around the human’s waist. Drawing her inward with a hum ( taking care of the injured side ), Elowyn brushes aside locks of blonde to press lips so gently ‘pon her brow. They remain against soft flesh for but a second before the Inquisitor pulls back to give the Songstress an amused glance.
❝Be more careful next time, yeah? Can’t have you dying before you sing for me.❞
