Fairspell Meadow trying to find tomorrow and ease in, til you dive in

His brow furrowed as she spoke, and slowly, he began to shake his head, chuckling ruefully. Relics, he remarked, golden gaze gimlet into hers. I don't believe in such superstition. My god is truth, madame—vertu et vérité.

He cast a clod of dirt aside, then stood back. And virtue has no solid form, Robespierre said. It resides only in action. In works and deeds.

The man was a mess, now, cloaked in earth-tones that spattered his precious pale pelt. His mouth pulled taut with disgust indicated that he was fully aware of this predicament. Still, he gazed at the sage femme, wondering whether she'd choose to ignore him or cast a spell upon his person.

What do you believe, madame?