Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,

Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.

There is a disturbance in the dark waters and the hair upon the girl's neck feathers while she turns to seek the disturber with an unfriendly grin of immaculate teeth. Flies settle and bite bitterly into her flesh as her body grows rigid. Orange. It is an unwelcome pigment. Her last interaction with a similar creature being rather unkind. Starving and hapless as she was, Circe was never lonely. She was a child of solitude and there had been nothing but interruption in her primordial quests. A vicious bark erupts from haggard lungs. Fuck Off.

Thirty years now I have labored

To dredge the silt from your throat.

Black lips shine as spit overcomes the walls of her teeth, another maleficent bark echoing in the thin emptiness between the wolves. Bloodshot eyes fall bitterly upon the hare between the stranger's jowls. Quivering but sure her forelimbs strike the mud hauling the girl forward. Not quite a trot her step is deliberate and quick. Skin folds delicately across her muzzle as she approaches. It is a false stampede for Circe will be no victor in such a fight. She knows not her intent but her desperate desire to be alone. In her flight the flies have alarmingly dispursed. It is action, Circe is learning, that rids one of their pain.

I am none the wiser.