It was - no, it...
It must be. Tig might know precious little, but he could tell one oak in the valley from another by bark and branches and bends. Or an ash from an ash, or any other tree from a forest of its own! And he could tell one face from another, forever.
Hers would have been hard to forget, anyhow.
"Priestess?" She was that, still - wasn't she? How could she not be? (How could she lose her wings?) The sight of her had tugged him from the innyard he'd been making a bit of coin chopping firewood for, across the well-trod cobbles and into the street for - just a glimpse of home, and hope, perhaps. If it was her, then - but it had to be her. Even without her robes. Her wings. Except... what would a priestess, or something like one, think of the likes of him? Tig stopped a few steps short, in his ragged, hanging-loose things, the warmth of a woodsman's work fading from his hands. He cupped them together, clutched both to his chest. Just holding that scrap of human-ish heat as close as he could.
"I'm - sorry," Tig fumbled, then fell quiet, eyes averted, with all due respect. As he wavered, a moment. Then a few more. What was he sorry for? When he didn't know what had happened to her. (Something must have. Something awful. Blasphemous, sacrilegious, some sort of desecration.) "Did you... I might be mistaken, I'm sorry, but - were your blessings upon Withermore, once? The villages." Meager, grim places. But not unworthy. Not like he might be, now...
@bellamychevalier