The shrine shelters them from the rain, a narrow stone alcove smelling of wet moss and old incense. Seralynd sets a single candle before the cracked altar, and its flame steadies the shadows.
Tarran stands beneath the low arch, huge even in this cramped place, orange scales dim in the candlelight. Rain ticks softly at the entrance behind her.
Seralynd
You are safe here, for the moment.
Seralynd
Take a breath, if you can. Tell me what you remember.
Tarran
The candle is small.
Seralynd watches Tarran with patient concern, one hand resting near the altar as if ready to steady her, not restrain her.
Seralynd
I am listening, Tarran. You do not need to be afraid of speaking here.
Tell Seralynd what Tarran remembers
Understand the nature of the hunger