Swiftcurrent Creek it was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles

Proceeding the minatory loom of an upcoming coldfront, a silent and dreadful harpy moved in a clipped, browbeaten saunter. She-Ra led the storm. Even with it still miles off, she appeared to drag the overcast sky with her—the impending heaviness of a frigid torrent tethered about the crook of her high waist like a leash. She beckoned the day's drear with her own very embittered expression, and her power crackled like static at the ends of her fur as she began to rashly bristle.

She had realized in that moment that she had walked onto the path of an oncoming duo: two quite large males, one stag-grey like winter, and the other deep and dark, like a forest at night. She-Ra blinked at them, owlish at first, but her surprise (maybe attraction) waned quickly with a severe narrowing of her yolk-yellow eyes. They would find no menial conversation from this one. Without a word, the storm-carrier prowled away in a tightly-wound slink.  

*a wild She-Ra passes by!*