Hushed Willows dripping in gold

@Sontés, and to make things interesting: let's go with one of our february themes

It was truly a frigid, cold day. Only when Olive had thought winter to be over, did it come back with a certain force and ferocity that the druid had come to loathe. She was a little taken aback at how the earth could do her so dirty — Olive was ready for the springtime and the many wonders that came with it. This, of all things, is what she was dealt?

The strong winds and severely plummeting temperatures managed to penetrate even the densest of the willowed grove and deadened everything; sight, sound, taste, touch. Almost anything that existed was covered in a sheer sheet of frost, which softened and diffused the weak winter daylight into something that could be mistaken for beautiful. Perhaps it was beautiful, and it would never last [all things eventually ended, of course], so Olive struggled between appreciating it for what it was and worrying for Séamus and Eleuthera, out there and alone in the cold.

However, if everything in the world was cold but one thing, that one thing was Olive. The white spirit’s body temperature began to rise, at an almost imperceptible level; she seemed produced her own heat from deep within and found that she was never cold, though this was a phenomenon noticed by only she. Olive, the midwife that she was, knew herself to be entering a phase of proestrus and silently celebrated with joy — soon she would bear Seabreeze a family, and they would be complete.

For now, though, this was her little secret which she allowed to manifest as a spring in her step and twinkle in her eye; perhaps a note more vivacious that her usual self. It was fun, and there were so few things that Olive ever got excited for nowadays, so she relished it. At the time, the frosted willow’s branches seemed to stifle her so she forsook them and escaped to glimpse her favorite falling waters, feeling the frenetic energy of the cascade resonate deep within her being.