The Sentinels grace in your heart, flowers in your hair.

She is not oblivious to the spell she has cast upon Cerulean. It brings her an even wider simper, one that transforms her countenance and morphs her into the coyote she is in blood and at heart. Her sire — unknown, unnamed — will never leave her. That is certain.

And you, Ereshkigal repeats, something almost like an ecstatic giggle in her voice, like a babbling brook over pebbles. She pulls back to peer inquisitively at her sister, question writ over her features as clearly as if she spoke — which she soon did, anyway. Where is your home, Cerulean? gently asks the sylph. Will you take me there? I am new to this land, and. . .so incredibly alone.

She lets her face fall into a pout, though still letting her natural good-naturedness shine through at the corners. I hope not to be alone, she admits, and there is truth in it. Other factors to be considered, sure — but Ereshkigal really does do better within a group of like-minded folk. Or, even if not like-minded. . .able to be molded, to be shaped, in her image.