Hushed Willows consumed with that which it was nourish'd by

thelxiope does not disappoint. atwood comes alive, listening with a rapturous expression. what the herbs do is interesting, but her stories -- that, my friend, is simply where it is at. he closes his eyes and imagines this woman, how the lightning may have zagged across her, the trail of scars across her fur -- white, he decides, would look the most striking. white fur and soft pink scars, or maybe angry, ugly red (a flash of red in front of him--no).

"i didn't know y'could lose your memories," he says when his eyes open, voice soft and awed. "did she know her name, even? if she didn't remember anything, was she even the same wolf?" (little did he know, of course, of his own mother's amnesiac history!)