Moonspear you can only remember what you want to forget

set some time in the indeterminate future. also making some assumptions about the meeting with teaghlaigh n’ stuffs! @Tryphon

The family of revenants returned to the mountain, not really any worse for wear. Of course, emotionality had always run hot through Olive’s veins and, as such, the pale woman was left reeling somewhat after the conclave between the svartells and the fearghal, with the poor cub stuck between the two factions. The melodrama was not without its reason; to see how her first born had grown only to be parted from him again would have tested even the most steadfast and steely of mothers — and when the wearied family did finally make it home, the shrouded woman stayed behind while the children and dakarai continued onto the den site. There, her identity obscured by her solitude, the druid allowed herself to cry and to call to the gods, announcing her displeasure at how they had let things turn out. Was this how the discarnate repaid their disciples?

When her tears ran dry, she swallowed her sadness, followed suit and quickly fell into old routines — Olive was getting quite good at that. These days found Olive feeling hale and light,  but such an experience might have broken Olive of the past.  It was nice being able to put her feelings aside, even if it was just for a moment; it was something she hadn’t been able to do it before, and [if she was being honest], it often came as a relief. Whatever she felt, whenever she felt — it only ever woe. Sometimes, to feel nothing was better.

One of the routines that came so quickly to the shrouded druid was her gardening. It had quickly become her most favorite of hobbies, quickly out-pacing piety as her preference. The physical labor of it strengthened her body while the artful nature of it strengthened her mind. Much of it was mindless, too — the repetitive motions of pruning and cultivating her small conservatory was quite soothing and she found her heart, breath and legs all working to the same beat. At that moment, the lamb was doing just so; gathering small and pleasantly scented blooms to delight her children. She did not dig them up but snipped their delicate stems carefully and held them against the paleness of her lips, enjoying the sensation of crimson petals brushing against her nose.