[ The day of Lefkokó is not something she is altogether familiar with. She had grown up in a different temple altogether, had worshipped something a touch different to the deity of dance and freedom. She respects the nature of it, of course, and she recognises the fact that it is worth having a date of this kind, a celebration to take the edge off the sharpness of an orc attack and the suddenness of being awake again, but she does not want to take part in it unless there is some means for her to prove that worth.

Lauralae never lived in a temple to Lefkokó. The constellation holds less meaning to her than it might others. Her heart hangs on another mantle - and she does not know who is aware of it.

She does not, therefore, spend much time sitting by herself, making herself comfortable in the wrappings of red and whatever black fabrics she can find. People are loud as they dance, people celebrate and speak and chat, and her nose wrinkles, settling in a corner as she makes herself comfortable. There's a scrap of wood in her hands and a raven on her shoulder as she begins to scrape and carve, spending her time making small trinkets and animals, placing wood to the side of her as she goes.

She does not pay much attention to any strangers, but sometimes she can be caught making a prayer of sorts, her eyes closed as she whispers. ]

[ It is difficult for her to ignore the urge to bury her hands in the miscellaneous things left behind from the orcs. She wants to take as much as she can, to loot and push things into her sack before she does anything else, self-preservation an instinct she cannot ignore. She does manage to scrape a few daggers, slipping them onto her belt with dark eyes darting here and there, but she does little else, moving to the the edge of the camp, towards the south.

She stares that way for a very long time, her raven flying overhead, scouting out the area in front before coming back to her shoulder and nudging his face into her chin and hair, grooming her while Lauralae pays no attention whatsoever.

Sitting alone a little later, she listens to the message, a frown on her face. Nothing to fear - it's a curious thing, a strange whisper indeed. She is not afraid of the Long NIght, she is not afraid of what it might bring. She is ready to make her way forward and discover more when the next message comes, her eyes flickering as she sits alone, leaning against a tree and stroking idle fingers against the courier. ]

Silarclupes. [ A frown, the raven on her shoulder squawking quietly. ] Irom otnemem.

[ No signature, no sign, and the sound of metal and liquid - it makes her think, and her legs are drawn up to her chest as she ponders it, soft and quiet. ]