Ravensblood Forest journey before destination

“Nor I, you,” the moonspear hissed, sorrow and fury further riddling her shorn face. “Find me my child, cast his thieves asunder, and then perhaps my spirits may settle.” Each word spat was a lunar shard, singing high and bright along the crescents of grief-ridden fangs. Her tail prolonged its reign above boney hips, presiding over the terse, uncertain scene.

But then, in her refracted mind,  “Or, you are of them, and you seek to lure my daughter from us, too?” With this readied assumption she advanced only one step — brazenly testing the gall of the ivory mountain before her — for all her worth seeming nothing more than an icicle in comparison.  (A rather wrathful one, that).