Larksong Grotto il était brun, le teint basané

her bladed hand reached forward

he had run.
blood sleeking fur;
blood caking fur;
dirtying fever from majestic claws boiling, suppurating, until it burst in boils upon torn right flank, and lestan found himself in a very different sort of dance.
he wandered, and from the sea blew down a terrible storm upon him, until snow veered him inland.
and lestan slept, and he rose, and slept again, and woke in fever and starvation.
his leg rendered worthless, he dragged himself into the cold first steps of a mountain grotto and fell not into sleep but delirium.
the gilded face of his golden-lake fairy affixed in his mind; lestan saw reverie dancing through flame upon the fire-wrought surface once for a wavering moment before he sank.