Lost Creek Hollow Samhain

she was not a pious creature despite her mind's tendency to connect with the traditional beliefs of her tribe. she saw natural phenomenae and could only explain it in such a manner.

the light of the moon was the night mother's attenuated glow, stolen from the slumbering sunna. when the dawn came, permeating across the ferns and dancing on molecules of dew, brunhild would bade farewell to one sister in favor of another. 

a night spent wandering left brunhild harrowed. a glimpse of sunna's reaching arms as she climbed from her bed, and she trailed her fingers through the woman's grizzle, silhouetted a retreating raven as it too fled with the night.

  who's there? — a worried call betwixt spires of pine.
brunhild halts, of course. she traces her memory for anything to compare that sound to. her daughter's sweet voice replays from memory, and for a moment brunhild thinks she has succeeded, just in time. somewhere in her heart she knows the words are not right—but a mother's hope can be overwhelming.

ostara?! she brays, looking for any sign of the little girl as she is remembered. soft and plump and so very small. she may have looked upon the man who lay coiled in his bed but not seen him in her momentary panic.