I'm pretty when I cry

There is joyful pleasantness to the stranger's voice that Pythia isn't used to. It had always been rule number one to be wary of strangers - especially ones who were quick to be kind. Her ears fold backward slightly as the wheatgrass is brought closer to her, the pungent earthy smell invading her nostrils. Holding her breath as her head pulls back slightly, she nods in confirmation that she got a good smell.

"You should add lemongrass and cattails to your wreaths," she suggests, her nose turning toward the edge of the lake where both items could easily be found. Her ears push forward once more, listening to the hush of the lake that eddies along the shore. "I can help. Sticks are easy to find," Pythia's tone is still leveled, an ethereal hush that often sent shivers down most.

Turning to begin gathering the sticks, she pauses a beat as the woman finally introduces herself. "Empousa," she says quietly, inhaling deeply to mark the scent with the name. "I am Pythia," a flicker of a smile briefly strikes across her pale pink lips before she grabs a stick and brings it over to Empousa.

"speech"