Blackfoot Forest Foolish Protector act 2

You’re going to make me cry!

Olive hadn’t moved very far since getting Dakarai’s warning of a killer, loosed in the area. The mother felt obligated to stay and find Cassiopeia, not only to spirit her away from the path of danger but to heal her from her most recent endeavor with her father. It was a turn of events that, once Olive had the time to muse upon it a little more, disgusted her. To lay a hand against her children was a punishable offense, and had never been something that easy with the dove, especially when the wolf in question was Dakarai. Their most recent interaction still infuriated her, confused her, frustrated her — but most of all, it saddened her and left her bereft.

The druid nurtured the smarting of her soul deep in the heart of the forest, where she often found herself — deep in the arboreal darkness of thick forests, or high upon some alpine peaks. There were no in-betweens. Here, she deigned to spend long swathes of the day sleeping, drifting off to some dreamland where everything was good and nothing hurt; where her family had remained intact and no one ever died.

When she wasn't sleeping, the waif walked about aimlessly as if she were a ghost. She did not see many things, or hear many things, and in this she found peace — until, one day, there wasn’t.

The blockade to her peace came in the form of an inky mass, spilled upon the frozen ground. Olive might had mistaken the wolf for detritus, or simply a rock, had it not been for the iron-sweet scent of blood misted upon the stagnant forest air. Immediately, there was cause for concern; wherever there was someone wounded, there would also be Olive to try and remedy the entire situation. However, Dakarai’s sonorous warning rang deep in her ears, and she could almost hear the echo of his voice talking about a murderer and a rapist as she walked towards the [for all intents and purposes] slain wolf, cloaked in a pervasive sense of dread.  “oh, god…” the wastrel moaned as she edged forward in her approach towards the brute’s fallen form, recognizing him instantly despite the grievous wounds that lacerated his body. Olive dropped to elbows and knees and crawled over the earth, next Dakarai’s lifeless form, easily falling into racking sobs at the immediate sorrow she felt and regret over pain the man must have felt upon his death — pain she had wished on him, but never imagined might come to fruition. 

Thus was the power of the gods.