grainne
You flee my dream come the morning
Your scent - berries tart, lilac sweet
To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy
Your scent - berries tart, lilac sweet
To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy
It was an atrocious day out.
Of all things Grainne loathed, trudging through snow up to her belly was undoubtedly high on the list, with snow itself being shortly behind. She hated the cold, it made her work difficult and it was a time where many were prone to sickness and disease, where starvation was a very real threat to those who were not so closely tied to the Courts and their resources, and in some Long Winters, not even being a Sovereign could have saved you from the hunger brought on by a winter that refused to go. The cold made her ache, for though her body was still relatively young for no longer aging past eight summers, she had been a filly once and those wounds earned in play groaned and protested. It made her feel old, which in turn soured her already ill disposition, and a vicious cycle ensued.
She had spent the day unearthing herbs that had just barely avoided the bitter frost, yet even though they would be barely able to be used for their dryness and spent youth, she was grateful for gathering them. Winter was an ill time, and every resource gathered was precious now matter how bruised nor how spent. Slowly she waded through the snow, breathing a soundless sigh of relief when the deep snow retreated to simply tangling about her ankles, its cold nipping her hocks but fortunately little else. The snow rolled on, unbroken, pristine, ridiculous, save for one errant dot in the distant rolling moor. Her dark ears flicked forward as the frolicking figure spun and danced across the snow towards her, as if the silver-dark woman was invisible against the snow. The child was undoubtedly of Denocte; few would kick their heels within the moor to a song only they could hear, and while that behavior was known, nay expected of Denoctians, anyone else would be declared mad for it. The rich and home-felt scent that reached her nares however confirmed the dancer's origins.
With a tired sigh, the mare moved to step out of the dancer's path, her dark ears falling flat to the thick waves of her dark mane. Let them enjoy the cold, let them work a sweat to chill and fall ill. Foolishness was what it was, and the hedge-witch would have no part in it.
Of all things Grainne loathed, trudging through snow up to her belly was undoubtedly high on the list, with snow itself being shortly behind. She hated the cold, it made her work difficult and it was a time where many were prone to sickness and disease, where starvation was a very real threat to those who were not so closely tied to the Courts and their resources, and in some Long Winters, not even being a Sovereign could have saved you from the hunger brought on by a winter that refused to go. The cold made her ache, for though her body was still relatively young for no longer aging past eight summers, she had been a filly once and those wounds earned in play groaned and protested. It made her feel old, which in turn soured her already ill disposition, and a vicious cycle ensued.
She had spent the day unearthing herbs that had just barely avoided the bitter frost, yet even though they would be barely able to be used for their dryness and spent youth, she was grateful for gathering them. Winter was an ill time, and every resource gathered was precious now matter how bruised nor how spent. Slowly she waded through the snow, breathing a soundless sigh of relief when the deep snow retreated to simply tangling about her ankles, its cold nipping her hocks but fortunately little else. The snow rolled on, unbroken, pristine, ridiculous, save for one errant dot in the distant rolling moor. Her dark ears flicked forward as the frolicking figure spun and danced across the snow towards her, as if the silver-dark woman was invisible against the snow. The child was undoubtedly of Denocte; few would kick their heels within the moor to a song only they could hear, and while that behavior was known, nay expected of Denoctians, anyone else would be declared mad for it. The rich and home-felt scent that reached her nares however confirmed the dancer's origins.
With a tired sigh, the mare moved to step out of the dancer's path, her dark ears falling flat to the thick waves of her dark mane. Let them enjoy the cold, let them work a sweat to chill and fall ill. Foolishness was what it was, and the hedge-witch would have no part in it.
@Seree - ..... grainne socialize pls im so sorry lynx Dx
