i wolves in our skin, we’re savages

She has watched for long enough.

From her hidden nook in the wild woods she arises, covered in a fine layer of dried mud, her mane and tail tangled with brambles and crispy, dry leaves. Amber beads of unknown origin are knotted into her unkempt forelock, which falls messily into her red-brown eyes.

It has been too long, and she suffers from it, and each footstep causes her muscles and bones to ache. She will feel better soon enough, soon enough.

It is nightfall by the time she reaches her destination. It is the Dale she is in now, filled with a glut of flowers and grasses. She pays no mind to the borders; she is small, unimposing, it is clear that there is no threat from the small black pony-mare. They will come soon enough; the scent of unknown follows her, marking her as an outsider.

”Ea,” she says, raising her nose to the wind, waiting for her arrival.

DÁ