She was like a leaf on the wind. Her body moved wistfully, flowing easily this way or that in a gait which may be seen as stumbling or even drunken by others yet is simply how she travels. Her eyes move this way or that glancing at things new or interesting and so moves her body. She is tall and slender, a bare slip of a girl yet there is a grace in her moves despite their occasional jerky quality. Her entrance to this new world was nothing of mention, the earth did not quake at her presence and nothing announced her presence save for the motion of the grass beneath her small paws. She meandered without a true purpose, within her jaws she carried the skull of a rabbit long since picked clean by carrion and bleached in the sun.

Without pause she moved deeper in the land, skirting a valley and heading towards a large clearing of soft grasses beneath the gaze of a group of mountains. Searching for nothing in particular she finally decides on a spot she likes near the banks of the slow moving body of water. For a moment she looks at the water, no doubt cold and crisp with the melting snowcaps and while her pink tongue flicks out over her cream-lined lips she does not drink. A shudder runs across her body before she turns her back on the water, as if ignoring it will make it go away, and sets her package down on the grasses. She nudges it with an odd care and intensity until it is in the ‘right’ spot and positioning, its hollow eyes looking at her head on.

Her startling eyes of ice and lilac lift momentarily, scanning the grasses until she spots a smattering of flowers not far away. “Wait right here,” she instructs the skull before wandering over and picking the stems what she finds to be rosemary before heading back, flinching away from the water once more. She lays the flowers at her mahogany paws, separating them into to piles and moving one set before the rabbit. “Rosemary for you and rosemary for me,” she says, her voice light and songlike as her tail sweeps in a friendly fashion behind her. “The herb of grace they call it and yet not grace enough. And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead.” She falls to muttering, jerking up and staring at the rabbits skull with a new intensity in her gaze.

With a startled yelp she leaps forward, beginning to dig beside the skull, her small paws flinging dirt into the spring air. Once she had carved out a shallow hole she gently placed the skull within, quickly nosing dirt back over muttering, “He is gone, he is gone…” throughout until it was sloppily covered with pieces of the rosemary flower strewn about. Finally she sat back once more, ears twitching this way and that before whispering, “He will never come again.”