Moonspear stars come out to play

All had quieted upon the mountain. Surely, life had significantly quicken for the alpha pair, newly parented once again, but Olive had found a steady pace that was not only divine but quiet pleasurable. The extreme melancholy following her and the dark knight’s fissure had abated somewhat — and though it still pained her greatly, the waif figured this was the most she was ever to heal from it. The heartache would live on, a constant wrenching reminder of what she stood to lose entirely.

So her days consisted of prayer and gardening [odes in moiety to the spiritual, as well as the physical], gamboling with her rapidly growing babes and encouraging their youthful development. At night she would tuck her family warmly against one another and depart — sometimes for an hour, other times for the night entirely — to read the stars and glean their tellings. It was all so lovely, yet it was the same, day in and day out.  At any other time, the fae might believe herself to be stifled and stagnant, but right now, the druid was all too happy to cede herself to this congruency. 

But there were new lives in Moonspear, as sudden as they had come. Since experiencing the joys of motherhood herself, there was nothing that the woman exalted more than the innocent genius of new cubs; new minds. Olive had intended to stop by, to bring a gift of some sort, to coo and murmur at the newly born babes — but the pale mother remembered how she withdrawn she felt so soon after birth, how reluctant she had been to leave her den [nonetheless the forest itself], and had not wished to impose upon Amekaze in any way. 

Soon, Olive could bear it no longer. The twilight was new and soft, the spring stars shimmering gently above — and so the woman plucked a beautiful, fragrant bouquet of pale flowers and made her departure from her family’s rendezvous site. Olive had so recently found an alcove of spring honeysuckle, and it was her wish that the saccharine undertones of the honeysuckle’s creamy flowers might pacify squalling children. She wished such resources had been available when her own children were this age — but supplies had dwindled during their exodus.

Her excursion was intercepted by Charon. His ghostlike form stood out against the haze of the youthful darkness, as did her own, and there was not mistaking that their paths were to cross. When the two wolves were nearer to each other, Olive slowed her gait to a halt and dipped her head in a reverent greeting. ”Charon.” She did not deposit the blooms upon the ground, electing to speak through her teeth, incase the alabaster king was just passing through and not seeking a conversation with her — the mother of heathens.