wait by the river.

𝐀 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬. Not as small as a newborn, but big enough to discern a small child. Everything is grey, something touching her? The vision rips to the side, is someone wailing? People are crying. Mourning and she realizes, she isn't the only one. Some sense pushes in weird ways. Erkowe is silent, tightlipped but unmistakenly, he is crying. The next thing she feels is cold, hard dirt crunched between her fists on a nameless grave- wailing, wailing, wailing. Sokanon wakes with a sudden jerk and a harsh gasp as fingers fumble with her revolver. Cold sweat soaks the collar of her shirt, it's dark, it's cold, and the chill spares no mercy a pieces of earlier that day scram behind the ache of a hangover. Weary, and now just about cranky, she sits up from her makeshift cot, about to reach over to rekindle the fire when something rustles in the bushes. She's on her feet in a second, weapon pointed firm towards any potential threat,