The painted man had told her to run along, to seek out the Meadow or the Falls. He’d said a lot of things about the queen with the silver hair, and she was curious. Grace had no way of knowing what was true and what wasn’t, no way to filter fact from fiction. This was a strange place, swirling with far more dangers and far more rumors than she could even dream of. How? How would she ever make sense of it all? Grace’s head was borderline spinning.
It was dusk when she entered the Meadow, and it was getting cold. She moved to the treeline, trying to keep the bitter wind from cutting through her coat. This wouldn’t do, not at all. It was far too cold for her to spend her evening out here. Grace is chilled, but it does not disrupt the timeless elegance with which she moves. She had to move quickly, hopefully keeping her body temperature up. From the Meadow, she traces the treeline and moves to the Falls. There should be more cover in the Falls, after all.
She moves to the Falls, willing the chill from her bones. The sky was bleeding, red and purple, turning to night more and more quickly. In a copse of trees, Grace would do her best to stay warm. It breaks the wind well enough. All she could do now was watch the sunset and wait for morning.
14.2 hh. classic champagne leopard. 4. knabstrupper x saddlebred.
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