Moonspear is this what you dreamed, then?

[table width=85%][tr][td]

The mountain which loomed above the doleful quartet stirred a sense of nostalgia within the shrouded druid, and the likeness it held to the sunspire of eons past was not lost upon her. It burned her; those memories of her and her lover, playing a hedonic game of cat and mouse amongst the autumn-tinted hues of that valley — and to look what was borne of such a fateful day! It was beautiful as much as it was cringeworthy, knowing what they knew now; the babes who donned pelts of ash and onyx, the son thieved from her side, and the parents, shellshocked from an existence of misunderstanding. The women was no longer an ingenue, innocent in the ways of the world and believing wholeheartedly that nothing mattered but peace and love. That halcyon zeitgeist was relinquished to a foreboding sense that there existed malice and corruption in the world [as was true of the stygian hellhounds of the bloodbound woods] and genuine misguidance [as was true of the misguided family, who also took up residence amongst bleeding timbers]. Perhaps I should stay away from any coppice with marred with the semblance of blood, she thought. 

Once again the family stood together, waiting upon the arbiters of their fortune. There was a foreboding silence that overtook them and the mother used the chance to preen her babies and husband, all of whom did not escape the happening without some sort of sadness. Aries was listless and Cassiopeia had fallen ill; there was a rift between Dakarai and her that seemingly could not be helped. Olive felt guilt, unable to change these things and better the fate of her loved ones. She was being whipped around upon the waves of change, as strong and forcible as the moon’s pull on the ocean, and  was struggling to do anything but keep her family above the water. 

Time was the healer of all wounds and Olive had to trust that time would heal this, too.

Olive saw the shadowed shewolf approach from afar and Olive leaned in close to Dakarai, placing her maw against his ears. ”We say nothing of the past,” she whispered to him. Olive now doubted her ability to give any sort of council, but their tale of treachery was too much for a family seeking acceptance. Before too long, authority of the mountain pack was before them. Olive watched her carefully, watching the shewolf’s eyes bounce from the collections of cubs to the sorry parents themselves — Olive tried to collect herself and organize herself into some sort of politesse [tail low between her hocks, head held below the shewolf’s line of vision], but their sorry state was impossible to ignore.

“Winter was not kind to us,” she spoke softly — as if winter was just yesterday. In truth, the winds of winter had receded many weeks ago and it was the current season, spring, where their true distortion lied. The sylph’s rosy tongue traced her lips, lingering upon the scar that ran from underneath her eyes and across her pretty little muzzle [a constant reminder of her transgressions]; and she was unsure if that alone would be enough of an explanation for an entire family appearing upon her doorstep. Thus, she continued in her customary alto “We seek acceptance into your pack.” Olive gestured to the three beings who accompanied her, as if there was any doubt. “We are many,” she said, “but we have much to offer.” Then, the mother fell silent, wary of letting her quicksilver tongue take control.

[/td][/tr][/table]