Ravensblood Forest My heart is Home with you

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A sage nod was given when Dakarai apologized and spoke that it would not happen again and without any reason to distrust his words as true Ceannasach was content to accept it, though a silent warning lingered in the gangster’s fiery red-orange gaze: see that it does not. The conversation returned back to Furiosa’s death and Dakarai confessed, as Arturo knew he would, that it had not been he to slay the red herring. “Then do not speak of it as if you tore open her throat yourself.” Arturo spoke simply, with a soft, lingering command in the deep, accented smoky timbre of his voice. He would hear no more of ill omens and how they caused death. They were able to believe what they wished, of course, but Arturo, clearly, feared no such thing. The very forest that they called home, that they had built their kingdom had circulated tales that would put nightmares in the heads of children. “My mother believed in many Gods, Goddesses and grand prophecies. She believed in her Soothsayers, in her heroes of legend.” Arturo responded softly, his smile a terse thing as it pulled at the edges of his lips. He, too had been raised around such fairytales and fantasies but still, much to his mother’s never ending disappointment he had not conscripted to such ideals. He was the master of his own fate, not some entity that he could not see, hear, smell nor feel.

Olive claimed the gangster’s fiery gaze next as it slipped from her dark paramour to focus intently upon her as she spoke of a reoccurring dream she had. Even if Arturo would have believed in such things as prophecies he would have been no better at deciphering then. It sounded, to Arturo, that something was bothering Olive and hence her subconscious was trying to help her resolve what ever troubled her conscious by replaying the dream. Yet, Olive was spirited and like her dark suitor appeared to believe in those things. Again, he was reminded of how his mother would have adored Olive. “I do not know, Olive. I do not believe in such things,” His mother would have been much better suited to soothe or confirm Olive’s worries. Arturo could do neither. His ears slicked back against his skull before they pushed forth, alert, in time with a soft, near inaudible sigh. “If it is my consul you seek I would simply say you are upset by Furiosa’s death and that your dreams are trying to help you heal from it.” That was from (what he believed to be) his logical standing on the whole matter. Whether she found it helpful or not, Arturo did not know but deigned to offer it all the same.

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