Ravensblood Forest blood flutes

That familiar, sticky sapling sight. The thickset waists of reaching timber, barring the forest like a most welcomed prison. The low winter light that prostrated through the many-colored canopy, falling [dimmed and weakened] to the leaf litter below. Ravensblood Forest was not necessarily what one might call a ‘happy’ or ‘beautiful’ milieu, but Olive cherished it immensely more for it. The wooded outcrop that flanked the Sunspire was heavy with sage wisdom and sonorous tidings — all valued assets to a woman such as Olive.  The druid gave unto the the forest devotion and liturgy, and the forest gave unto her fleeting glimpses of the world’s collective conscious. 

The smoky seraph’s adulation of the place was quite obvious to the nose; as her spiced scent rode atop the notes of Teaghlaigh’s borders, despite her absence.  The wayfarers slowed their gate to a halt, though Olive had been absent-mindedly tempted to stride right over through the boundary and return to her stony grotto. Sidling up against Armand, Olive quelled the mechanized howl that bubbled beneath her ashen collar [a howl to alert the family of her return]. No, this time her message to the family must contain something else entirely!

She craned her neck to look at Armand, wondering how he was feeling right then. During there travels, there were many times that she believe he would abscond away and she would wake one morning in an empty camp. Though they had spent many hours together, these types of questions still remained — along with others, such as “will his depraved past follow him here?” and “will he remain past winter?” Olive wasn’t even totally certain Arturo would accept a temporary member [that entertained no hopes of joining the family], if that were even the case.

Prodding Armand’s shoulder with her own, Olive lifted her lips to the sky and called to her family.