The Sunspire don't call home

I are the worst
In truth, Olive hadn’t seen the man’s grisly exterior until she was much, much closer to him. Often, the druid liked to believe she could see past exteriors, humble or ornate, to glimpse at the soul that lay underneath. That’s why she prayed to gods, to ignore the physical in the search for something more meta, right? It’s why she resisted all impulses to hunt and kill things that were different in here only in form — for what was a prey animal, if not something that nurtured the same divine soul as she? Bodies were nothing more than a vehicle, and appearances were nothing more than the luck of the draw.

Despite this, when Olive realized she was speaking to a comrade with only a single viable eye, Olive drew back mentally, emotionally and energetically — but not physically. She continued to surge forward, swallowing the nonplussed questions that formed thickly in her maw. The ash-and-bone druid would treat this being as she treated all beings: like family, because he was.

He seemed to be as intrigued about her and she was about him. The nameless man regarded her silently, critically, before speaking the name of the constellation in the northern sky— and, of course, her daughter. Inwardly, Olive braced herself. The only person to ever randomly mention her sweet child had been Dakarai, and that was only to announce that he had brutalized his daughter and left her for dead. Somehow, Olive understood that this connection was likely not so egregious, but it seemed the Cassiopeia had a most interesting life that her mother was only beginning to uncover.

“Cass is my daughter,” she stated, not unkindly. “You know her?” 

and all my days are trances, and all my nightly dreams
are where thy grey eye glances, and where thy footstep gleams
in what ethereal dances, by what eternal streams

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