Lost Creek Hollow and drew warmth of blood from bone

@Wardruna

 She lingers by the creek, letting the water just barely lap at her toes. It is cold here, ice threatening to overcome the dulled edge where dirt means freezing water. To the poet we delivered lacquered bone and gilded laurels contemplates briefly throwing herself through that sharpened layer, letting the cold consume her flesh for good. 

Has she truly fallen so far?

The priestess no. Poet now. Just Poet; she makes a noise of scorn at herself. It is not her time to die. She has not earned the right, and she mocks her own weak musings. But she does not turn from the creek, instead placing paw against the flimsy shelf of ice and watching it give way under her weight, watching her feet submerge into the chilled depths. It is a shallow band of water and not enough to drown her, but the ache of cold in her leg is a just enough punishment, she decides, and lowers herself artfully into the water until she is near submerged.