The Sentinels young as the morning; old as the sea

deirdre smiled to his statement, and her tail waved in slow, sweeping arcs. it is no insult, deirdre hummed, it is not spoken in the common tongue. it is only what the creatures of the wood have called me: witch queen, there was a bemused curling of her lips there, and though she truly did believe herself to be a witch, to be called such a grandiose phrase--although fitting for her--was strange to the humble girl, not yet a yearling. but she had taken to it, and so it was this that she now called herself. they called her a variety of other things: the white queen, the queen of roses being but two of them. you may simply call me by my given name, deirdre, for she did not expect all to wander her woods calling her a name they could not properly pronounce.

he introduced himself, and her smile grew. his name fit him well, handsome as it was! only when he finished did deirdre see it fit to respond to him in whole. the pleasure is mine, marcello! she rejoined gaily, you have interrupted nothing. i was merely watching the movement of the herd, she informed, yes--donnelaith. what is it you desire to know? for she did not wish to fall into a reverent tangent about how the mists rolled within its depths, or how, in certain fragments of light, her forest sometimes appeared to be covered in a thousand jadestones, emeralds, and green amethysts! she could speak for hours on the psalm of the flowers and the sermon of the trees that made even the nonbelievers in things unseen doubt their convictions! so she awaited his response patiently, the sentinels as ever-watchful as she herself remained.