celtic lore

His words did not have the accented lilt she was accustomed to. She had time enough to wonder where she was as he spoke, his words soft and unassuming. Caoimhe recognized the effort exerted there into pushing her fears away; had she more time, had she not soon after been distracted, she might have been able to think more on them, on this other, on what he wanted and if he wanted it from her. Caoimhe had little to give. 

But the others presence had called to her, the wind alerting her. She silently thanked the element, jaw tilted upward. Again she was reminded that her journey here was not without purpose. That she had come to expand the faith. To define that was foolish; it had no perimeters. Bring it here, draw it out in others, reinstate or remind... Somehow her faith was here in this wood, where The Old ones rumbled beneath them all, their roots deep. But they were tired, these Old Ones; they were not the Tuatha De, older than the Fair Folk. It had been too long since any measure of faith had watered these roots... 

This the druid felt as seconds passed her by, and as her eyes fell to the man, she was shocked by the link she was certain, now, they shared. Now her chin drew downward and her ears twitched, perking forward only just. There was no denying that she agreed in the movement alone, but as his eyes fell away she was no longer captive to the thought. 

She could sense the others unease, and it set her on edge. Her narrow muzzle pointed now to the wolf whom sighed, and the mortal sighe—while both were distracted—moved to sprint deeper into the wood, to evade the strange energy that had been created, to find the heart of this place that called to her without a word.