The world tilts on its axis, spinning closer and closer to the sun, then farther and farther away. It rises and falls with the tides that terrify and frighten the winged girl, the green goddess, the pale ghost in the sky who circles and laughs like a crow cackling above. There is a hunt, a great hunt!

And something is happening.

Bodies flock in, they come from near, they come from far. The swamp girl, the priestess child, the eternal daughter of dusk watches them circle and hunt, watches the way they come and go, and all the while she listens to the harkening whisper of the winds that hold her aloft. Goddess-girl, ghostly girl, she at last descends from her cloud perch into the swaying grasses of gold and dreams. Bodies have left under the light of the moon, it lifts the world into silvers and grays, blues and blacks. Heavy shadows toy with her skin, marking it in cloud dapples and throwing dark gray - darker than her wings - where it does not belong.

Juniper almost frowns in distaste, but she wonders how many times she’s been dappled by the canopies at dusk, how many times she’s painted herself black as she flew to not be found during a game in the middle of the night? And like that the displeasure is released from her body, entering the world as it exits her soul, expunged from shivering body. From afar, perhaps she seems cold, but it is excitement that shakes her, the thrill of a hunt, the yearning for more knowledge.

"These are the fields where the dead man rose - they must be,” she whispers with the moon as her witness and the wind as her guide. Bright green eyes, spring green eyes, laughing green eyes rake over the hills and wonder who could be hiding - and where the grave was undug and corpse come back to life. Perhaps she could find it, if she tried. 

"Speaking."