Coat of Arms: For the Quiet and the Fierce

A silver shield— not polished, but burnished with time, like moonlight caught in stone. This is not a banner of conquest, but of endurance. At its center: a fox, mid-step, not snarling— alert, alive, the patron saint of disappearing without being lost. She knows the back ways, the soft ground, the difference between retreat and wisdom. Beneath her paws: wild thyme and yarrow, not roses—never roses. I want the plants that heal quietly, that grow in stubborn places, whose roots remember drought and bloom anyway. Two crossed quills above her head: one black, one gold. Words as weapons, words as balm. My shield is etched with stories that cut and comfort both. Colors? Deep forest green— for stillness. Ink blue— for the sea I never stop carrying in my chest. And a single streak of ember orange— foxfire, the moment just before change, or flight, or truth. And the motto, curling beneath in worn script: “Not loud, but lasting.” Let them come with their noise. This is the crest of the patient, the watchers, the ones who survive by becoming exactly themselves.