Herbalists' Cache i'll pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in.

The hen's egg issues for him to leave, her timbre briary;
her dress is burgundy and laced with puce, her coat of arms of calamity. 

Astraeus lets the boy take in his warmth. The eggshell porcelain of his coat, it reminds him of someone. Swallowing and matching the vixen's firm rebuke, “I won't. I won't let him alone.” The woman is willowy, a likeness to reedstalks — much like the haint that wings beside her. Esurient flames and insidious brimstone. He'd almost let the sylph do what she may while he watched, but the man solidified his belief all strangers had ebony hearts.
The male-specimen reminds him to starkly of the golden laced man who'd smashed the already fractured webs of glass that was Sagtannet, he almost wanted reach and rend, reach and rend;
instead he rolly-pollies around the winterstrike as he takes the blow to his shoulder. He soberly wishes for Mahler in the whelms of corporeal agony and mental anguish.