Moonspear you can only remember what you want to forget

Olive, as blind from the sunbeams as she was, did not see how his attention riveted; only heard his silence. For a moment, the druid wondered if he was a spirit — assigned to muteness, as many were. But Olive then guess that, surely the vibrancy of the sun had obscured her own form, too, so Olive was glad when the man ducked into the shade of nearby vegetation.  Her gaze trailed him as he moved slowly from ambiguity to defined realness. He was silent as he moved, too, but when he reached his destination the man spoke and he stammered out an apology. Olive chuckled. She moved into the shadows beside him and set the bleeding bouquet down gently beside her, several inches away from where her feathered tail, colored as cream, curled around her haunches.

“They’re for my children,” she divulged, lifting her head back to her full [yet still petite] height and rolled her shoulders back in a relaxed manner. In the presence of Charon or the Cerberus [or, of course, Amekaze, though she was least stern of the pack’s upper echelon], Olive might had offered an honorable bow or aversion of her mossy eyes, but here she did not feel the need. Trypon did not seem to seek her humility, and submission was something the fae was not entirely fond of — it was really not a question from who Aries and Cassiopeia (and, perhaps Sirius) received their vagrant and challenging personalities from. They had much to learn in the ways of pack decorum; especially her boy Aries [the twin who survived on with his birth parents] who was developing into quite the wildcard. The pale mother admired it as much as it scared her. 

”This mountain is full of them,” she uttered, leaving it ambiguous if she mean the plethora of flowers or the plethora of babies — the mountain was full of both. Then Olive giggled again, unable to control the fluttering inside. She did not know him, yet she felt safe — a feeling that was fleeting nowadays. Perhaps it was the silliness of his speaking or the unsureness of his demeanor. Whatever it was, it was nice. “Who are you?” the lamb questioned, wishing to know more than just the stranger's name.