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

Were it not for the poppy's stupor, Mary's words would have rankled her. Instead she laughs and shakes her head, drawing a paw against the dirt. "In my last life I was a priestess," she explains, the word priestess curdling in her mouth, ugly in the common tongue, but she still does not allow herself to speak the language of her people now. "Beneath-Night's Sky, the wolf-queen; I was an acolyte for her will." With a dreamy sigh she shakes her head; "I am not any longer."

She does not explain further. The act of sharing her sacrilege is too intimate even addled. Mary has left something behind as well, though surely the circumstances are different. If she's meant to feel a spark of connection, she doesn't, too distanced by her rearing behind temple walls. "They have met well, walk in peace," she instead murmurs, a fragment of a larger saying, given to soothe survivors. "What do you search for now?" Poet asks in the same slow tenor she's been speaking with, lingering curiousity behind her hazy yellow eyes.