Moonspear you wouldn’t leave 'til we loved in the morning

Consider this thread the preface, though it’s not set directly before

@Dakarai

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The night was cool; unseasonably so for the middling season. Perhaps the daytime was warmer, but Olive did not know — she had become a nocturnal creature, spending the day curled around her blossoming puppies and doing nothing more than sleeping. They were nearly a month old and growing like weeds, developing little voices and little personalities…. and as much as it enraptured the mother, it saddened her. The babes, one the color of smoke and the other of burnt embers, they were so young to have experienced so many hardships. The four of them were utterly exhausted; so wasted both physically and emotionally that all they could do was sleep. 

and Olive could find no evidence that she wasn’t at fault for every single one of those hardships, no matter how many times she pored over the evidence.

Just as she spent the daytime asleep with her family, the misted druid spent her nights alone. Truthfully, alone was the last thing she was, but her company of choice were the stars and planet and constellations that shimmered in the sky and illuminated their mountainous landscape. Their entire zeitgeist shifted when the sun set and the moon rose high and Olive found that is was here that she operated best. The moon strengthened the waif, and though the celestial body was currently waning into its own newness, Olive found much pleasure in its company. During the night, the stillness of the earth was reflected in her own the calming of her own heart and mind and the lamb was able to find some semblance of repose. The night concealed and comforted her while the day illuminated and challenged.

Not to mention, the softness of the dark obscured the visibility of the scar upon her face; the one that ran across her cheek and down her muzzle… a parting gift from the necromancers of the Blackfeather Woods. Olive liked it better when others could gaze upon her and not be reminded of her transgressions, manifested into the pink mark across her pretty visage.

Just so, the mother sat upon the edge of the mountain that night, looking out into the inkstand valleys and crevices that splayed out before her — all the while, attempting to quell the anguish and anxiety simmering in her belly.

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