Cricket Creek Bog Unless I say so, ain't your Barbie, no

"erzulie, chère," the harlot hummed. if allowed, she would step forward and attempt to clean the worst of the mud from the pup's withers, the air of a mother licking her thumb to erase a smudge from a dirty little face. she had chosen this place for its proximity to the place niamh had indicated.
but there was still a great young tree of leeriness sewn into her chest. the firebirds had treated caiaphas badly. niamh herself had followed. erzulie shook away the thought, though her two-toned gaze flicked over the foliage, assuring herself an escape.
"your mot'er will have been missin' you," she remarked, straightening. "when de waters clear away, perhaps you might come for a visit. a true one, dis time."
her tones remained affable, but the harlot tensed within herself, a burgeoning portion of her in preparation for a conflict.