Autumn light had turned greens to reds and sweet grasses to brown wheat, and Antigone felt a peculiar love for all the colors the swamps could never hold. Marshes wallowed in healthy greens and deep browns, colors of the earth that gave open canvas for the moonlight to turn them grey and white and cut deep, black shadows. But the open air gave green and red, orange and blue, and where she was no daytime girl she almost found herself enjoying her time spent in the midday sun moreso than she did the night. It was certainly warmer during the day, at least.

She'd since moved inland from the coast, fearing the open sea and the moon's shine would give too much power that she, as an oracle and nothing less, had no business in wielding (though a part of her bargained that, as great as she was, she wouldn't mind handling a bit more of that immortal light). But her legs were tired, and that pretty coat she prided herself over so greatly had lost a sweep of its shine. It was better to settle in the afternoon as she did now, standing breathless in the cradle of the open plain all circled by mountainside, and take the time to groom herself and rest a little before the moon was up and she had to keep moving. She wouldn't settle until she found at least a peat bog, or some sort of mud or something. As used to being waited on hand and foot as she was, it went without saying that Antigone was a little impatient — but it was harmless, really. She was having fun on her adventure, and that's what mattered.

She wasn't too good on scents, not yet - a life with a nose dunked in the perpetual musk and stink of the moors had given her nothing less than the worst survival instincts this side of the Panhandle. But she was a good listener, she liked to think, and that - those tiny voices and that little beep of a cry - were undoubtedly the sounds of children. At first, a good sense of confusion swept through her; children, here? Well, they were everywhere, she supposed with a hum, turning quietly as the sound sprang up from some direction in the sunwashed grass. 

Children, she knew, were communal efforts. The idea that, when she finally lifted her head to sniff at the air, there was only one woman who smelled of milk still, was a little odd. She'd been raised by her parents, her grandparents, her uncles and aunts, her neighbors, her priestesses, the Moonsister. They could all be named mother and father if she liked. This didn't seem to be one of those situations in the least. "Uh — xαίρετε?" and though she stood quite still, her head angled for any glimpse of her new company that she could spot. You only used the water's tongue when you wanted to be extra polite, she'd remembered that at least. "I don't... um, are you okay?" 

Who was she asking? Beats her, but she let her ears flatten with mild concern. The sound of a kid yowling was never a good sound, not even to the least maternal of women.