It’d been so long since she’d stepped foot in the damned City again. Aside from a few hurried errands she’d pull a cowl over her head for to get it done as quickly and discreetly as possible... It had been a long, long time since she could spread her wings in Silvermoon.
So long ago, she’d been a regular on the streets. She loitered around the Ravenwood Hall, she recognized people and they recognized her - for better or for worse. It was a little reluctantly that she was returning this time to do the same, after such a comfortable life of solitude with the children and Bronvys. Regardless, she was here now. She was back. Back with the children, back with Bronvys, back with Ravenwood.
Aevyn was ten years old now. A beautiful, weird little spitfire that was the embodiment of everything she and Bronvys wasn’t. In Anderleigh’s eyes, the child was perfect. She could shoot a bow now thanks to her father’s instructions. The bubbly little red-headed child had even killed her first deer recently. She showed all the signs of growing into a skilled marksman. To her mother’s relief, she had no interest in magic.
Aurorien was fourteen. Despite the obvious traits of her father that she’d had from birth - the black hair, most prominently, Anderleigh refused to acknowledge them. Every day, the priestess saw more and more of Rowaena in her features. She even had the same affinity for gaudy, ugly clothing as her birth mother did. Still just as quiet and timid as she was as a younger child, Rory contrasted Aevyn’s personality starkly. Her preference for blending into the background was only amplified by Auntie Calliren’s tutoring to be a spy.
The two girls were just as inseparable as years before. Aevyn dragged the older girl around and forced her to be social. Rory was responsible enough to keep Aevyn out of -too- much trouble; she knew when the future huntress was going too far with the mischief. Despite how vastly different they were, they balanced each other perfectly.
Arvek was four now. His raven hair was eternally disheveled just like his father’s, hanging down limp around his face. While he wasn’t quite matured enough to hang out with his older sisters, he definitely had an attachment to Rory. Perhaps it was just their similar basic features; their long dark hair and scrawny forms. He wasn’t quite old enough to grasp the concept that Rory wasn’t his blood, not that it mattered. He was learning to read and he could count to twenty. Anderleigh feared that he was far too smart for his own good.
She’d finished cleaning the old apartment they kept in Silvermoon. The furniture was dusted, the floor was swept and mopped, and the kid’s toys and books were all in their respective places (for the moment). She’d even ventured out to stock their pantry and commissioned more Ravenwood tabards to be sewn. Nostalgia was a very vehement feeling for now, but she knew it would soon fade as the new memories would eventually replace the old ones.
Time to spread her wings again.
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