Fox's Glade be cunning, and full of tricks

many stories — delight lit the green from within the swamp-water of mona's inherited eyes, and her lips curved into the first smile she had felt in her heart for some time. "i do." but what stories could she tell a man who carried tales in his proverbial knapsack? "i'm told two of my sisters are witches," mona breathed finally, having never spoken of the donnelaith druids to anyone as of yet. "or were — i don't know what happened to them."
"our father is buried in a place where a magic forest burned," mona began, deciding that if she could not gather the finer details of lasher's life on earth from those who had known him, she would embellish them. "he was king of it. he was a wolf and a ghost, and a witch. he had ... seven children," mona pressed, voice wavering only a moment. 
as if bidden, a pause followed wherein the girl adopted a rather stricken expression, her murkwater eyes bound dizzily to the kind face of the story-prince. "and i'm his last daughter — oh, tadec! does that make me a witch?" her tone was both horrified and titillated; the stuff of mythos before her and she apprehensive, looking to this nightguide for her answer.