The Sentinels birds flying high

it was a jovial song that the trees carried in them this day; they sang it to her, having heard it from another, and her heart was warmed to hear of the ditty. someone was being sought--perhaps deirdre could help! the witch moved through the wood slowly but surely, having lifted herself from a circlet of flowers that lucani and she had found by the riverbed. lucani had left, recently, and her heart had known pain once again.

she arrived before the duo in time to hear the foreign words spoken from the other woman. the buxom woman was undoubtedly a beauty, to deirdre; she was smoke incarnate, in each of its rolling colours from conception to its own unfurling, pale tendrils. white came through sparsely, but for the most part the woman was the thickest, most tangible colour seen from the smog. her eyes were a silver, the likes of which she had only seen in aria but due to the darkness the other had on her coat,  it was more apparent.

the pale woman carried herself with humble importance, her kohl-rimmed emerald eyes staring upward at the woman through thick lashes. deirdre was besotted by the other, voice and appearance both, and she hoped to hear another song, soon. have you found who you were looking for? and her emerald eyes held fast to the other, the ghost of a question upon her lips--is that all you have come for?