Lone Star Mountain the sweet taste of olive oil on your lips

Wow! This man was more forward about his spiritualities than most she met in her travels, and that was many, especially since she dabbled in these arts herself. The druid listen to him speak the name of his gods with confidence, which she certainly liked, since her own gods were largely unnamed and indistinguishable from one another. She smiled and snickered, knowing they were speaking of the same thing, though with a different lexicon. That was the peculiar thing about religion and spirituality; at their cores, most preached the same values, though with differing interpretations. 

 “It is whatever you want to call it,” she suggested. “but when you have it, you know.” It was always clear, even from puphood, if one knew how to identify it. Her father had seen it within her at just a few months old and spent much of his time nurturing her abilities. When there was no more that her could teach her, her turned her out to the world.  “I do. More when I was younger,” the  gravid woman responded honestly. “Ever since I had children, their voices became quieter — but their messages became more clear, and no longer only came from the stars.”