Wapun Meadow tears of blood

Suddenly, there was another! Olive startled to find the masked woman from the other day on the scene, speaking tongues; a prayer! A small gasp escaped Olive through barely parted lips and the two spoke and it was as if the sylph had stepped into a chiaroscuro oil painting, backlit by the moon’s crimson pulses; how beautiful and delightful it all was, despite the sacrifice and inherent solemnity of the thing. Then, the man espied them — he turned, painted in blood — and almost immediately dove into a story which he claimed she had already known, but alas, she did not. 

The words that the man spoke we spectral and mystical, and they exploded from his tongue with a conviction that the non-spiritual types rarely experienced. The passion was all-consuming and easily shared amongst the three wolves present, as they all knew and understood without having said a word as to why. The tale continued, of jealousy and wrath, of kings turned to peasants, and when the priest howled she could not help but join him in song, her tones sad and low — mournful for the fallen. It certainly explained so much, if this litany was to be believed. Wolven lives, suffering at the behest of unruly gods; the reality of it was painful. Then, all too soon it was over, and the nameless chronicler wound down his fervency.

It seems appropriate that she say something, to exhibit something… but Olive, oh, she had nothing to offer them but humbled star stories. The sylph was more of a slave to divine intention, rather than a vicar of prayer. Her liturgy was lived in her everyday decisions, held to drive her standards and defined from which activities the woman would abstain. The gods told her to do this and she did them with the utmost of care, for there was no more a dedicated servant than she!  Had anyone asked her at that moment, Olive might have dedicated herself to the pale priest, for he was clearly the mouthpiece of the gods! Wordlessly, luminously, the shrouded druid drift forward and towards the slain rabbit by his feet. She advanced slowly, body held low to the ground, assessing his demeanor. Perhaps the sacrifice was to remain untouched, or perhaps blood paint was only for the holy, or maybe she must give something if she wished to receive. If he posed no imposition, Olive would paint her muzzle in a crimson blush. If he did, well, she would pull back and then probably die of embarrassment.