The day was as young as a newborn; streaks of azure mewling and tossing with the midnight hues of mauve and cherry. A gentle breeze caresses the trees, swirling their branches and disturbing their own new growth. Creating a shower of exquisite proportions, sousing the lass beneath in its velveteen embrace. An eye peeks open, giving just a brief glimpse of the startling golden honey that holds flecks of emerald and lavender, before it falls shut again; her side heaving with the effort of a sigh, her warm breath tickling the sticky dew encrusted blades of grass before her wet dark brown nose. A paw strikes out, disturbing the serene feeling as a the melody of a Akepa thrills out above her, striking up a conversation with other nearby dwellers. ”Is minic a bhris béal mac tíre ar a shrón ach i do chás beidh sé a bheith do ghob.” Her voice is soft, a even alto against the shattered silence yet the deeper annoyance is clear as her feather nemesis ceases and desists for all of a minute before chattering yet again.

Forsaking rest she rises, stilling only to press her snout into the blossoms that now coat her pelt. They were gorgeous, bright bloody pink near the heart only to bleed into a pristine white around the edges. The floral perfume clung to her dresses, mixing with her natural scent of storm and cedar, creating what could almost be a heavenly aroma. Almost I dare say for the vision before one is anything but heavenly at her core. She was a fighter, one who was not easily swayed from her beliefs. She would much rather cut to the quick than make friends. She would rather leave you ghost eyed and listless before actually giving a care. Yet she is not all cold, she is surprisingly loyal, if she were to take a chance.

It is not until the zephyr rises again that she moves, her muscles rejoicing in the movement as her blood warms, radars alert as are optics. Her steps bemoan of confidence in abundance, her gait sure, as she transverses the land toward the line of wooden sentries. The forest before her is foreboding yet inviting, beseeching her to take a look, which she obliges. This will be how you find her, still, a contemplative mask settled upon her lovely features. Dare approach her and set the game into motion? Dare ye play with fire?