Blacktail Deer Plateau the swelling of broken violins

Olive was admittedly a bit taken aback that the wraith did not submitting willingly to her ornamented rhetoric [as wolves often did]. Made uneasy by this, Olive’s throat tightened and her  veridian gaze regarded him closely. Was he dangerous he dangerous in such a state? Did this disconsolate soul event wanted her there? This was an emotion that she really didn’t understand, as the fae lived a generally positive and upbeat existence.

But, misery would always be helplessly devoted to company, this Olive knew - and as he shuddered and shook upon the plateau’s crisped grasses, the boy revealed himself to be nothing but pure misery. As such, Olive was to be his company.

The peaceful crusader did not necessarily know how best to help the him. Ever the empath, Olive knew a distraught animal to also be an animal that wasn’t thinking clearly. Logos took a backseat to seething pathos in these situations, leaving no room for a stranger’s persuasion. Even with this perspective, Olive’s jeweled tone dropped into a smoky alto, growing deeper alongside her situational sobriety.

“The blood in your veins and the heart that beats inside you - are they not the very organs that sustain your life and permit you to draw breath?  You can appreciate their innate power or you can loathe them for the pain they cause. One of those options requires much more suffering.” The auburn male sat up during her impassioned soliloquy and she leaned in towards him, remaining upon all four cream colored paws. 

“We are each in our own hells.” The seraph tasted the thick words.  “Life is hell…so, we are forced to look towards the heavens.”