Work Text:
The istik have prevented her from cutting them down and freeing herself. Lae’zel writhes under the bright red one’s arm, trying to ignore the way the warmth radiating off her feels comforting (feels familiar) on her skin.
They’re all speaking in that dissonant tongue of theirs.
Another—Human?—bows to her eye level. She squints at him.
“Lae’zel of Crèche K'liir,” he greets her, properly, and continues in well-practiced Gith, “you are among friends, even if you don’t believe so.”
She doesn’t know where she is, and none of them are kin.
Yet, as she calms, she feels… safe here.