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 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.
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.
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.