Lilith has arrived back at the cabin. The first purple glimmers of dawn splash across the sky as the night yields to day, the glowing blanket of stars snuffing out one by one. Lilith hangs her kills in the butcher shed, and prepares to go inside, methodically cleaning her bow again and check the wood for cracks or signs of stress. She unstrings the bow and carefully oils the wood, then gently tucks the strings away after checking for fraying. She cleans all the arrows that were used and checks each shaft for straightness, and feathers those that need it redone. She lays everything out, orderly, perfect, neatly, mathematically, on her cloak and wraps them into a tidy bundle, then takes it all inside the cabin. Greymane is sleeping in the chair in front of the fire, a tired old man, his swollen knee elevated and wrapped up with an herbal poultice applied. His head has been smeared with some sort of salve over the uneven stitches. She doesn't like him sleeping here. He should be in bed. That's where sleep happens. She brings her hands nervously, but keeps herself calm. She heads upstairs, and checks her room, methodically, perfectly, mathematically. It needs a lot of work to be right now. She starts to organize everything all over again, arranging and rearranging, until she has to climb into bed. She changes her clothes, slips into bed, and promptly sleeps.
