The Sentinels she was made of flowers and satin and velveteen dreams

overgrown flowers littered the earths floor. the ones that did deirdre plucked, and placed in an ever-growing pile that she consistently returned to. by eveningtime, deirdre lay before the pile and gathered them to her breast, inhaling the sweet perfume of them before she began to work a simple witches magic unto them. the wise old owl had shown her this trick of simply weaving the elongated ends of the flowers stems against one another, and the babe had become well-practiced in this. her fangs were gentle, as gentle as she would touch her own sister; though the flowers were dead, the owl had told her that in the afterlife, they would know their treatment and exact vengeance upon those that discarded them. all things, she was told, must be treated with kindness. the dead have eyes, and the dead know all; let them guide you when they wish, and the living will know. strange words, but words that spoke to the pale woodland girl, who paused in her efforts to see the garland she worked upon. it looked lovely, soft and violent pinks alike combined, as well as purples of near-every shade. while she worked, she hummed an age old melody that nature often sang itself, and the wilds watched.