Blackfoot Forest when night fell she placed hand upon breast; prayed for weeping days of rain

She smiles at his question and glances away. "Neither," the sinner says, and goes quiet. She could leave it at that, but somehow she suspects he might be able to understand. After a beat, she continues. "I was a priestess once." Her gaze finds its way back to him, curious if he will press her for more details. "Flowers carry symbolic meanings," Poet tells him, "they can be used to communicate messages to the living. And to the dead, or so I've been told." Or so I've once believed. 

The frost gives way gently underfoot, a series of small crunches as she lightly steps forward, nosing the ground.