Blackfoot Forest when night fell she placed hand upon breast; prayed for weeping days of rain

she's at/around the blue springs cave.

 Now that the shine has worn, her days have fallen into mundanity, routine. She does not want for company, nor would she deserve it if she did. But Wardruna is an ever present figure and she remains loyally by the side of Sif. The man who will run the Valley, Xan, she feels little towards but he is there, and there is the enigmatic Addie, who she lets keep distant. 

 Often she is struck by the similarity to her former home, but without ritual to bind them, Poet finds herself... wanting. It is, she supposes, a fair and just punishment for a blasphemer like her. To have stability but be left unfufilled. And yet, the tricky nature of personhood! She searches for something anyway, some small tiding. She does not believe in the concept of Gods any longer but. But.

 She had not been searching for the tunnel but it comes like a beacon; the spring a new altar. The press of the walls at her sides grounds her and gives her purpose. She does not believe in the Gods, but is there not someone to whom she owes a prayer? Yes. She exits the spring into the forest, searching for some small offerings, plants or stones that have survived harsh winter's blow, with which to build her small bema.

Now that he is living with a band of wolves, rather than on his own time and rules, Phocion sleeps less, rousing himself unwillingly to face the day. He knows that the norm is to be active when the sun is high, so, though he doesn't like it one bit, he's up and at 'em today, wandering just outside the Valley's borders to a forest nestled in the mountains to the south.

The woods, at least, provide shade from Ileana's glare, and he meanders happily through them, pelt a shock of white against the dark green. The yips of foxes rang out somewhere close, but it was otherwise quiet, most songbirds having flown away for winter.

Movement ahead catches his eye, and Phocion pursues it, coming across a tall, slim woman, engaged in. . .well, something. He didn't quite know what. But her bright gaze was questing, and he stepped forward, encouraged to help her find what she sought.

"Good day," he greeted politely. She smelled of the valley, though he had never seen her before.

The former priestess absently notes the male's arrival, an ear flicking toward him, but she does not turn to greet him fully until he speaks. "It could be," she agrees smoothly, "though the snow is a hindrance." With a sigh she drags her paw through the layer stubbornly coating the ground, revealing nothing but dead dirt underneath. 

After a moment she places the familiar smell clinging to the man's fur as the Valley. She hadn't considered Xan might have other members (or truthfully hadn't cared enough to consider). Her gaze flickers to him again, re-evaluating. "You may call me Poet," she introduces, offering a slight cant of the head, "are you a member of Xan's Valley?"

His mouth quirks in a smile at her opening words. "Can't say I agree," Phocion responds amiably. "But then, I'm from the north." Clearly; his white pelt stuck out sorely in a verdant summer forest, but through the snow and ice, he was almost invisible.

The white-pelted man regards her for a long moment before responding. "Poet," he repeats, keeping the name in his memory. "I'm Phocion. And yes. . .I am a Valley wolf." There it was, that Xan name again. Was this woman close enough to Alexander that his nickname slipping from her lips was permitted? He had only heard it once before, with the alpha's sister, Valette.

She hums, an absent sound, as she considers her newly met pack mate. Phocion. "It snowed where I am from, though I was younger, and perhaps less inclined to be bothered by such things," she tells him wryly. She doesn't dwell on it. Thoughts of childhood carry no particular nostalgia; she'd been taken for her purpose young and training occupies a great majority of her memories. 

"I was hoping to find some plants that might have survived winter's blow," Poet explains, finally. There isn't a point in being secretive, she supposes, and an extra pair of eyes could not hurt if he were so inclined. "Hyacinth or daffodils, preferably, but I'm unsure what grows around here. And any sort of unique memento: a bit of bone, a feather, something along those lines." She does not explain why, although if he asks, she would most likely. Perhaps leaving out some of the more ... unpleasant details, but nonetheless.

Now it was his turn to hum, as he considered her search. As a priest of the moon and stars, the earth and its greenery were by no means his area of expertise. Even conversations with the medic back home hadn't stuck with him. Nevertheless, he thought it was at least polite to try and help Poet find what she needed.

"I know daffodils," he said, smiling warmly. His voice was a little unsure, but he felt he could pick out the yellow from the jumble of colors and information in his mind. "Hyacinth is not familiar to me. Can you describe it, so I can help you look?"

Phocion lowered his muzzle to the ground for an instant, taking in the fresh scent of frost, that curious dry-wet smell of winter. "Bones and feathers, eh?" he remarked casually, meaning no offense by the statement. "I can look for those, too."

She returns the smile, pleased by his willingness to help. Another small adjustment is not expecting. There is no obligation between them, but he is offering to help anyway, and she knows to be grateful for it. "They are usually purple or white, with five petal flowers. The flowers form a cluster at the top of the stem." They like the cold, she knows, but if they fare in heavy snow she is unsure. 

"Thank you," Poet tells him, then smiles again, a more subtle twist to the delicate line of her mouth. "They carry still a connection to life: bones, feathers, things of that nature." The sinner lowers her head, resuming her careful examination of the forest ground. With any luck the pair will turn up at least something. Something she can use to mark her intent, even if bringing the altar to completion takes years.

Taken out of context, her inquiries into bones and feathers seemed almost random; now, with an explanation, he understood. As a priest, he had given such offerings to Fengari at ceremonies before, and hoped to do so again soon.

Phocion noses around, looking for what she seeks. "Are you a medic, or a priestess? Or both?" He glances up, icy gaze finding hers. "I know the connection you speak of. About the bones, the feathers. Not about the flowers, though."

She smiles at his question and glances away. "Neither," the sinner says, and goes quiet. She could leave it at that, but somehow she suspects he might be able to understand. After a beat, she continues. "I was a priestess once." Her gaze finds its way back to him, curious if he will press her for more details. "Flowers carry symbolic meanings," Poet tells him, "they can be used to communicate messages to the living. And to the dead, or so I've been told." Or so I've once believed. 

The frost gives way gently underfoot, a series of small crunches as she lightly steps forward, nosing the ground.

Phocion cocks his head, not willing to let the subject get away so quickly. "Was?" he asked gently, his icy gaze melting into warmth as he stared at her. "What happened? If you can share," he added, dipping his muzzle in a respectful acknowledgement of her privacy. If she didn't want to tell him, Phocion wouldn't try to drag the truth from her lips. Secrets had their place.

"I've never heard about that use for flowers," he continued, intrigued. "To me they've always been just. . .plants," the white priest finished lamely, blinking apologetically at Poet. "Things that heal, food for our prey."

He shrugs. "I am a priest. I know of nothing but prayers. . .and the moon and stars." He nods at the bones and the feathers. "Sometimes we use bones like these--remnants of things that once were--to help us find favor with Fen--er, our Father. Sometimes it is necessary."

He is curious about her wordchoice, but she holds her tongue until he confides in his own priesthood. It does not surprise her, for she'd sensed something similar between them. Whatever defines their unique sects seems fairly different, she thinks, for stars were not much of her forté beyond paying mind to certain influences. 

"Ah," the sinner murmurs. She does not answer him directly, but instead says, "there is a small tunnel hidden in this forest that leads to a set of underground springs. I am going to build a small altar there." Poet glances at him and smiles dryly, adding, "hyancinth represents remembrance, and daffodil, forgiveness." She can let Phocion draw his own conclusions from that.

Sudden understanding blossomed within him, like a tiny ripple in a pond. Remembrance and forgiveness. For details, he would not pester her. For some reason, she had turned away from her own faith. It was not his duty to harangue her--but perhaps he could steer her toward his own.

"An altar?" he mused quietly, intrigued. "In my faith, we have no altars--there is only one rule, that prayers must come under the stars. It is not an opportune time for me," Phocion added wryly, his muzzle tugging with a half-smile as he glanced up toward the sun-dappled forest canopy.

"This lifestyle in general is not ideal," he continued, idly scanning around for bursts of purple or yellow, vivid against the drab backdrop of winter. "I prefer the night. Wolves are not at their best during Ileana's reign."

Had she been able to discern his intention, she might have scoffed, unoffended but amused. As it is, she merely tilts her head, following his gaze up to the sky. "I served at a temple," Poet explains. Bitterness tints her voice at its tender edges. "Amongst a group of other priestesses; our goddess lived in the form of a wolf. A fragile thing called Beneath-Night's Breath."

Who has sprung up to replace her, Poet idly wonders, but does not linger on the thought at Phocion speaks to the night. "Ileana?" She questions curiously. It does not surprise her, necessarily, to learn that other cults name their phenomenon separately. Beneath-Night's Breath was their speaker to the gods, whose names and forms were shifting and precious, not for the mouths of mortals. But of course it is all meaningless. In the end, even Breath was mortal. She does not put much stock in gods now, and will offer libations only to mortal souls in everlasting torment.

His ears cupped forward, eagerly drinking in her words. He differed from other fanatics in that he'd not only hear out what others would say of their religion but store it away in his mind for later perusal, collecting each and every story. Just because he believed one thing didn't mean others were necessarily wrong--there were different ways of telling the same story.

Perhaps if he had grown up inside the tribe, it would be different. As it was, Phocion had been a worldly wolf before his arrival there, and worldly he would remain.

"Iliana is the sun," Phocion explained, "and Fengari the moon. Evil and good, manifested in the sky." His blue eyes narrowed as he stared up once more, the sunbeams--so comforting to some--feeling razor sharp on his snowy pelt. "Beneath-Night's Breath," he repeated, his voice a murmur. He brought his gaze down to Poet, smiling softly. "I do believe we have more in common than we might realize."

She listens to his explanation with a mild interest, the way one would indulge a small child who still believes in the tooth fairy. It is unfair, she supposes, given how Phocion seems to be willing to accept her verse alongside his, but it is how she is now. But she cannot help herself from probing gently, "evil and good always seemed such reductions to me. If they were real, would the gods not exist as the same flawed, nuanced beings we ourselves are? Though I suppose it is difficult to read metaphor in shades of grey."

The way he says beneath-night's breath chokes her suddenly. She swallows, forcing a small nod. "Perhaps that is the case," Poet says, and busies herself with retrieving a bone shard that has caught her attention suddenly, "although in any case, I admire your ... dedication to your gods, Phocion." Gathering the shard delicately between her teeth, Poet offers a slight smile before moving in the direction of the tunnel without much regard as to whether or not he will follow.

He listened to her quietly, his lips drawn tightly in a smile that was half-grimace. "Our flaws," he interjects, "are sins, and nothing more. Life is doing good, and atoning for the wrong you've done." For a moment, he fell silent, then added, "Iliana was once good, and then she chose to do harm. Her flaws are our flaws--her sins are our sins."

Phocion noticed how she looked away suddenly, and declined to speak further of these matters, merely nodding as she spoke. The priestess--former priestess, he amended--stepped into the tunnel, and, after waiting a few beats, he followed, white form swallowed up by the darkness.

sorry for the wait on this; gonna fade here