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Within a few short moments, Tasa was beside Malris, seated almost comfortably on a rock. Her eyes still watered as she fumbled at the ties of her pack, searching for clear water to rinse the grit away that her tears had missed. Malris took the bag from her lap, swiftly opening it and removing her waterskin. She took it from him with quiet thanks and rinsed first her scratched and stinging eyes, and then her lightly bleeding fingers. In seconds, she could see again. She examined her hands, noting a torn fingernail with sluggish blood welling from beneath it, many scratches, and a deep gouge in her right palm. Malris took her hand in his and picked a small stone carefully from the cut, tossing it aside.
She looked from her seat out to the sea, taking in the quiet clouds that brushed the horizen. A soft breeze picked at her; she ignored it. She sat quietly as Orėmir, now beside them, lightly cleaned her cuts and she began to hum a distant tune thoughtlessly. It was only after Orėmir finished dabbing her scraped up hands with fresh smelling and nastily stinging liquids that Tasa looked up and realized her singing had an accompaniment: Malris' melodious voice took up the refrain as Endamir's boot tapped to the rhythm. It was a well known song of old, but Tasa had not noticed herself singing until it was over. She smiled, looking at her clean and blood-free hands, and then frowned, shivering. The friendly breeze of before felt colder; more forbidding.
"Does anybody," she put forth quietly, "feel as unwelcome here as I?"
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