*tink*
Frea was asleep, sprawled out over almost the entirety her little bed. The first real bed the girl could remember having in her short life, probably. The bed that the warrior had to all but force the child to use. Frea screamed and kicked and whined for her pile of pillows and cushions in the corner of the room. The tiny little nest she had made herself and was so proud of. It no longer existed in her mind or memory once she actually tried out the bed. Breygrah was able to clear the corner without a second glance. Breygrah sat.
*tink*
She mumbled in her sleep, a lot, and this night was no exception. Nothing was remotely recognizable, but Breygrah could at least tell it was orcish. It was always orcish. Her father would not have minded that in the least. She began learning Taurahe because it was only proper to know her mother tongue, but it was always going to be the second language for her. Just as orcish was for Breygrah. Gruff, harsh, throaty orcish. Noises rather than real words. Taurahe flowed off of the tongue. Orcish was a clearing of the throat. Breygrah smiled.
*tink-crack*
Noise? The elf? She didn't seem to be stirring. Poor thing was exhausted, whatever she had been doing. Her eyes were dark, her breath was ragged from fatigue, but she hardly looked as if she exerted herself. The Warriors knew better than to ask the priestess what she had been doing, since she would lie anyway. And that was okay. The elf slept, and tauren watched the night. Breygrah sighed.
*dunk*
The tauren's ear swiveled towards the window, and the sound. A clump of dirt stuck to the window, a blade of grass with it being whipped around in the wind before it was finally torn free. Kex'ti? Who else would be so playful at this hour? She rose, and the small, silent room made her well aware of the noise her hooves made on the floor. She crossed to the window to see a familiar shape in the grass below. 'Wh... why would she... What?' Breygrah descended to the street with a bridled horror. 'Who... Is hurt? Did someone succumb? Is papa sick? Has mother sent another of her scoldings?' Breygrah grunted.
"Ragetotem," the huntress greeted.
"Thunderhorn," Brey responded in kind as she looked up to study the huntress' face.
Chepwa seemed in no different a mood as Brey could remember. Stoic. Silent. No panic. No one is hurt. The warrior quickly calmed. She did not notice her cousin carried anything until a heavy folded pile of cloth was flung and hit her in the face. Heavy cloth stained dark brown, trimmed with blue. A golden bull's head stared back up at her, and a lump began forming in her throat. The huntress hardly raised her voice enough for the warrior to hear "you know what you must do." For what felt like an eternity, Breygrah stood and stared.