Moonstone Quarry the sky's falling baby

She was not noticed at first, but when she was the man returned her chuff with one of his own. There was still some distance between them and Olive saw no reason for it, for the man [of a shade so similar to hers, save for the amber-stained mask that hugged his broad features] seemed friendly and convivial, so several dancing steps closer were taken by the fae’s featherlight feet.

“Intruding? No,” she responded sweetly, unable to discern the language he greeted her in. Olive had never the mind for linguistics — her preferred method of communication was largely nonverbal, for the most part. It was how to gods spoke, with divinations and energies; thoughts and intentions. Olive could never do as the mummer queen did and slip in and out of a foreign tongue as easily as she could breathe or sing. So, Olive was pleased that the man slipped into the common tongue so easily.  With a simpering smirk, the fae pulled forward. 

“Quite contrary.”

The woman was, for lack of better words, hungry for someone to talk to. The wolves of Moonspear’s priorities and passions were different from her own. Tryphon… he was forever aloof — and without Dakarai, or the company of her two sons, the woman found herself to be lonely. It was a strange and foreign feeling, and she did not wish to entertain it much longer.