Overture Downs they placed fire-licked pages at the foot of the crown

vague for now

Perhaps there is more than nothing left for her, though she barely dares herself to will it. Each thought comes accompanied by its shadow: will to live meets turn to death, forsaking atonement meets guilt for chosing so. There is little she can do to win a war against herself and so she has gone in search of something to take the edge off - a little poppy if she's lucky, though she'd settle for lavender or thyme to soothe the anxious beat of her heart. How she is managing to feel everything and nothing at else is beyond her, but she prefers the blanked tranquility of nothing.

Her search is succesful, thank the Gods but she is careful not to overindulge. She's seen, in her time, some succumb to poppy-fueled madness, and it is an inelegant way to make oneself suffer. There is a residual chill in her limbs from her cold water bath. The sinner sighs and lowers herself to the earth, feeling the haze settle in over her. 

The portent... thoughts of him drift idly through her mind. Perhaps it is because he is the first she's seen since leaving Beneath-Night's Breath, the temple, but she cannot help but wonder what will become of her to follow him. Yet, she thinks she will. 

She drifts.

So far as Mary was concerned, there was nothing wrong with a bit of rest, especially after taking a journey such as she had. It was getting colder with each passing day, though as she made her way toward the east, it seemed that the drop in temperature had been expedited. Food was scarce, but she'd become so accustomed to filling up on water and scraps that it barely fazed her at all. That is until she decided that it was time for a break to soothe her aching joints, at which point the hunger began to slowly set in. 

There was a thin creek not far off that called for Mary's attention; she trotted over, humming a low victory song, and began to lap at the icy water. She drank until her thirst was quenched, then began to look around for any signs of life until her eyes rested on another wolfy thing not too far off. Hello? she called out, expecting a response.

The edge of darkness at her mind has been soothed, and she is lulled into rest. Yet she does not get such peace for long, the presence of another dimly noted through her brain's fog. Charcoal-smudged ears flick towards the call of the other belatedly, lifting her elegant head. It takes a moment, but she sees her, a dainty thing of creams. 

The blasphemer lays her head back down, eyes drifting shut. "And she wept for the blooming of poppies, orange-red in a field of emerald," she murmurs, the words barely coherent, a snippet of memorized doctrine no longer needed, strangely tasted in the common tongue. Her eyes open again. "Apologies," she sighs, ah-pologies, voice drowsy slow. "Hello," she echoes, the corners of her lips quirking up. "Have you come to share..?" Her tail flicks towards the remaining poppies. Plenty left, for later, or for company; Poet has no mind toward which.

The other, obviously intoxicated beyond her wits, rose to greet Mary. Her ears twitched and her tail did a slow wag, but she calmed her anxieties for fear of seeming rude. Oh, no thank you, she said in the calmest voice she could manage. Normally, Mary avoided the company of this sort; those who were willing to sacrifice eternal salvation for temporary satisfaction had no place in her circle. Still, she knew better than to hop on her high horse and strut away as she might have once done and decided that it was more in her favor to spend a few moment with the drunkard.

I'm Mary, Mary Scott. It was a simple name but she liked it. Of all the things she'd once had to remember her family, it seemed that her name was the only one left. Mary took a few steps forward, the wind blowing through her fur to reveal the darker roots and highlighted points, then sat back on her haunches to observe the stranger. It's a nice day, don't you think? I've surely seen worse.

The woman turns her down and she accepts the answer without response. When she introduces herself, Poet slowly rises to her haunches, her movements graceful even when affected. "Poet," she offers in return, idly tracking Mary's movement as she sits.

A nice day. The weather is fair, crisp and chilled, the sky bright and winter-tinted overhead. The lingering chill in her bones has abated for now, perhaps aided by the drug. "As fair as day may be," she agrees, then laughs softly, a tinkling sound. "Why must we speak of weather? Tell me of you and yours," she says pleasantly, tongue loosened from formality. There's no need of that here, where she holds no position of note, is not bound by social contract to any particular conduct. She has been sheltered from this world; now she wishes to engage in it fully. Thank poppy for that.

Not everyone was raised the same, that was for sure. Mary cocked her head slightly to the right, a silent, Hm? written on her face. It was bold of Poet to assume that one had enough trust to share any sort of conversation beyond small talk just yet, but she figured there was no use in nagging this stranger about her poor manners. What do you want to know? she asked. Mary had plenty of stories to tell, if that's what Poet was looking for. 

Why don't you tell me about yourself instead? Why are you doing this to yourself? Of course, everyone had their reasons for the things that they chose to do in life, but this was one of the poisons that Mary just couldn't seem to wrap her head around. Wolves like Poet at least held more dignity than some of the street-walkers she'd met along the way, but so far as the word was concerned, these things were one in the same.

Whatever social norms exist outside of the temple, she does not know them nor is she particularly interested in assimilating. Wardruna seems to have plans for his companions that she is not yet privy too, but in the meantime, perhaps she will give herself in to this new freedom. Could she hear the thoughts of the other woman, she would have laughed; not raised the same, indeed. But she doesn't and so she considers the two questions under her sleepy smirk, amused by their contradiction.

"Anything," she tells Mary, "for I know little of this world." She is sheltered but not a fool. She understands the gists of pack structure, the petty drama of the lives of those outside the temple. She'd heard stories from traveling visitors, though the sorts that were drawn to her home came for blessing, for relief, they were not the sort to have normal tales. 

Mary's question about her lingers. "To the poet," she begins, and then stops herself, breath catching (a hiccup in truth). That is not hers now, that is what she decided when she rebirthed herself in icy creek. Were she sober, she might be more reticent, more wary, but now, she laughs and it comes out a sighing giggle. "I am a sinner," she says, not as confessional but as objective truth. "I am nothing now, flesh granted speech." I am nothing, the thought that both terrifies and entices her. What is nothing if not a starting place? She can be reshaped, perhaps by Wardruna's rough paws, perhaps by the coming winter, perhaps by these mundane encounters in this strange new land. In her haze it becomes clear: this is freedom, escape. She knows there are no gods to punish her and she's already accepted she's too selfish to punish herself, with no one to bear witness.

So let this be the moment the babe's eyes open.

Well, we're all sinners. Doesn't mean we can't be good, too, Mary said quite matter-of-factly. There was no one free of sin, as it was an integral part of the flesh; just as Poet said, they were no more than flesh granted speech, but Mary thought that the spirit deserved just as much recognition. I think that you're selling yourself short, Poet. Sure, you're a sinner on the surface, but who are you? Why was she called Poet? What did she do to deserve such a title; was Mary in the presence of an artist? She'd always wished that she'd been gifted with a talent, and had yet to realize that her specialty was meant to be in preaching. 

Mary drew in a deep breath and pushed back her shoulders. I'm a mother and a wife, but I had to leave my family behind. All of them -- her children, their fathers -- were resting so peacefully in their graves, their souls frolicking above, so she'd decided that it was time she moved on. Sometimes, she thought that she could hear the voices of either late husband whispering for her to wake up each morning or eat something when she forgot, and Mary listened contently; she felt comfortable knowing that they were near.

Were it not for the poppy's stupor, Mary's words would have rankled her. Instead she laughs and shakes her head, drawing a paw against the dirt. "In my last life I was a priestess," she explains, the word priestess curdling in her mouth, ugly in the common tongue, but she still does not allow herself to speak the language of her people now. "Beneath-Night's Sky, the wolf-queen; I was an acolyte for her will." With a dreamy sigh she shakes her head; "I am not any longer."

She does not explain further. The act of sharing her sacrilege is too intimate even addled. Mary has left something behind as well, though surely the circumstances are different. If she's meant to feel a spark of connection, she doesn't, too distanced by her rearing behind temple walls. "They have met well, walk in peace," she instead murmurs, a fragment of a larger saying, given to soothe survivors. "What do you search for now?" Poet asks in the same slow tenor she's been speaking with, lingering curiousity behind her hazy yellow eyes.