Lost Creek Hollow and drew warmth of blood from bone

 The portent offers what she hoped he would, although the details remain murky. She does not draw back as he moves closer, observing from under wolf-wisp lashes him better. His accent she can't quite place. It is different from the language of the temple, the language she does not allow herself to speak now. 

 The priestess draws in a breath, surprised by the sudden appearance of another woman. She seems to know the portent already, Poet intuits, from the way she moves to his side with ease. The phrasing of her question momentarily stumps her, but the portent seems to understand, answering in a tongue she does not know, velvet smooth. She must have been referring, she realises, to her and the portent. Romances were strictly forbidden at the temple, which some protested but not she. When her gaze returns back to the portent's, her expression is intrigued in a different way.

Sif, he introduces, and Wardruna. Unfamiliar names to her, used to the particularities of their naming schemes. Habitually, she murmurs soft and lilting, "To the poet we delivered lacquered bone and gilded laurels," the words nearly blurred together as a prayer. And then she stops herself, shaking her head. "My apologies, no. I... Poet. You may call me Poet." It feels like stealing, to still use her shorthand, but she still needs some connection to Beneath-Night's Breath. Her true name will be forgotten, but she will carry the moniker forever. It seems a fitting absolution. 

She looks between the pair and finds herself smirking. "Wardruna," she says, testing the name on her tongue, "what something do you offer?"