Don't go throwing your stones around

The pain of Furiosa’s death had not faded yet. Time had taken the edge off — though, her drug of choice had always been a cocktail of stoic prayer and a simple splash of modern, melancholy loneliness. The smokey siren had always been a bit of an introvert and now, with the heaviness that pressed upon them, she found herself often retreating into the shadows of the forest. It was cathartic to lose reality among the dizzying smattering of the sequoias and firs, both young and old. Although, Ceannasach strictly instructed them to not be alone until the inscrutability murder had been realized.  Truly, she rarely was alone [as the only true happiness she felt now was Dakarai, who he was her shield from the horrors of the world], but Arturo’s words did not stop her from seeking the solace of the nonliving macrocosm.

She traveled under the guise of patrol, but her wanderings were truly aimless and brought her in wide circles around the sap-scented coppice. The scent of Teaghlaigh was strongly intertwined throughout their borders, marked incessantly as they were.  So when the perfume of another invaded the normality, it shocked her sensitive nose and snapped her inattentive mind back to the earthly reality: Someone was on their territory. It was the murder. It had to be.

The form of a man could be seen through the veil of falling snow. “Step back!” the woman seethed, her black lips pulling back to reveal minikin ivories. “Who are you?!” The word were barked without an inflection of amity; a rarity for Olive. All fear was gone, the resulting void filled with the need to protect and restore peace in the world. This was all on her, now.

Hackles raised and grimacing, Olive prepared to howl for the others.