Overture Downs they placed fire-licked pages at the foot of the crown

The edge of darkness at her mind has been soothed, and she is lulled into rest. Yet she does not get such peace for long, the presence of another dimly noted through her brain's fog. Charcoal-smudged ears flick towards the call of the other belatedly, lifting her elegant head. It takes a moment, but she sees her, a dainty thing of creams. 

The blasphemer lays her head back down, eyes drifting shut. "And she wept for the blooming of poppies, orange-red in a field of emerald," she murmurs, the words barely coherent, a snippet of memorized doctrine no longer needed, strangely tasted in the common tongue. Her eyes open again. "Apologies," she sighs, ah-pologies, voice drowsy slow. "Hello," she echoes, the corners of her lips quirking up. "Have you come to share..?" Her tail flicks towards the remaining poppies. Plenty left, for later, or for company; Poet has no mind toward which.