Ravensblood Forest blood flutes

Skipping with permission! perhaps @Armand picks up the next post?

Arturo metamorphosed in the treeline, a smoky spectre before their very eyes. Ceannasach held a commanding presence; this was a characteristic of his that only strengthened in their bereavement of the red herring. [It felt as thought Furiosa too held a stronger presence, though Olive felt her this more keenly now, posthumously, than when she was Teaghlaigh’s acting officer.] His embered gaze simmered on her before jumping to Armand, then to her again. The ashen sylph rounded her chest and neck towards the ground in a delicate bow, stretching one creamy limb out in front of her and curling the other against her ribcage. At Arturo’s behest, Olive made the introductions. 

“This is Armand,” her lilt was soft and unassuming. “I was…wandering, and we met each other south of here. In the Flatlands.” Arturo knew she was a vagabond and seemed to support her wayfarer-isms, but this jaunt had been ill-timed, as the entire family was on edge and didn’t desire the fated comings-and-goings of its members. “He’s a good man. He seeks a family…” Olive let her voice evaporate, unsure how much of Armand’s story she, herself, wanted to divulge. It was decided that she would give Armand the chance to recount for himself, as hers would be an ever-poor rendition of Armand’s poetic sadness.  Only if he resisted would Olive share his unsavory situation; and she would only do this in the name of complete transparency with Ceannasach. Arturo often saw things in others' words that she did not, and they were safer for it. If Armand’s brutal past put them in any sort of danger, the woman trusted him to root it out. 

Olive turned to @Armand and gestured toward him with a flick of her velvet chin, encouraging him to pick up where she left off.