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

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.