That is so often the way of it. The itch beneath the skin, the prickle like burrs or stray feathers caught somehow under the clothes and between them and the skin; hearthmistresses, not First, not Second, needed of course but fire can be kindled without the touch of magic after all, without the secret lore passed down a long line of Keepers from Arlathan to the Dales to wherever they have wandered since. The Wilds had always called to Morrigan before she had been ready but perhaps it had been because she had not had a plan to keep herself safe after, she hadn't seen what there was within herself, what she could truly accomplish and she hasn't been back even once though she doesn't trust that Flemeth is dead.

She does trust that he did fight her but such things as a legend cannot stay slain for long, not if they're not entirely human.

Flapping her wings again, she takes flight, beating them hard, up and up until she hits the higher air where it's easier, croaking encouragement; this is always the worst part, she would say if she could speak like this, but she circles instead, to show that no effort is involved, only the odd flap to keep her level as she soars. For a small bird, getting up won't be as much of a problem, and well there are plenty of leaves when she has to remember how to land when the time comes.