Falls

In a small clearing, deep in the edges of the Crossing where the Falls and the Peak nearly met, where the trees grew thick and few horses traveled, the Morrigan existed.

She danced as if the world itself were watching, as if there were no such things as strife or sadness or pain. She danced as if there were nothing better in this world to do than to dance, her growing mane and tail flung out behind her like proud banners. She was a wild, unfettered thing, uncaged by any traditional structure. The golden wraith twirled and pranced through the meadow without a care in the world, nimbly dodging around obstacles both real and imagined as she careened about.

Blades of grass rained from her hooves as the rich scent of late spring flowers (not yet dried by summer's heat) filled the air, the pollen swirling around her like her own magical cloud. Undaunted, the slender wraith continued her dance until at last the music in her head reached some sort of crescendo and she pirouetted into a leap that sent her crashing down in a shower of plant life that she accentuated with a powerful YAWP that was frightfully at odds with her elegant dance.

Sides heaving and a wild grin on her face, the Morrigan lifted her head and peered into the trees to see who it was she had been performing for this time.