Hushed Willows Put a spell on me

Valmúa watched the hrææta, a kind that her brother hated so much. It was in this little black thing that the poppy girl saw fear, and hatred, and willful ignorance. She made a strange, sideways smile. The lopsided grin related to her own admission of general malcontent toward the little thing's kind. However, this day she was on a particular mission, and Valmúa always had her way in the end.
Little `amaġuuraq`, do not do that. I only come to ask if you have seen the mushroom, those that grant vision to their user, she said simply, careful not to move forward. Her voice was gruff, but held no malice toward the small thing. What a show for no purpose. What a funny little black thing.