fern believer

Pythia was corralled into the gulley along with her siblings. The trip wasn't terribly long and with her growing legs, the stretch felt nice in her sore muscles. Who would've know that the blind girl would end up not being stunted in growth? Stumbling every so often, she quickly recovers, learning quickly to not be ashamed over her faults. She would try to remember it for the return home where those exact rocks and fallen trees were.

Once they were settled amongst the gulley and their mother had everything laid out for their lesson, Pythia turns her attention to Modesty. Ears pressed forward, lashes batting against her cheeks as her chin turns upward toward Modesty's voice. Meadowsweet, wood sorrel, chickweed, cleavers and wild garlic. Five options to choose from. With some help, she's able to lean down and nose at the different options laid out before them. Sweet, bitter, woodsy, pungent, tangy. A mixture of scents washing over her, but all distinct in their own way.

Without a word, Pythia stands and begins to sweep slowly and methodically over the gulley. Her nose is level with the drying grasses of late summer, seeking out a darker, cooler shaded area to begin the real hunt.

"speech"