Dawnlark Plains baby, there’s a fog over the pier

seelie presented her then with the shining artifact she held clamped in her jaws; a horn, obsidian and polished. she had rarely given or received material things before, and yet she took to the horn immediately; not for its beauty but instead for what it represented, what it meant. 

her nose trailed over the horn, tracing its contours, before taking the thing carefully in her muzzle and drawing it towards herself, dropping it at her paws only so that she may speak without the gift hindering her tongue. thank you, came her gratitude, soft and sincere. it's beautiful, seelie. I'm sorry I don't have a gift for you. it felt wrong to have no offering set aside for the woman, but perhaps was best; Dawn was inexperienced (to say the least) in the art of gift-giving and knew not where to begin.