Larksong Grotto A wounded deer leaps the highest.

There had been no sign of them for at least a week now, not since the rains came. The initial thought—that they had abandoned her at the first opportunity—was a bitter one, ringing of truth; but she was fleet-footed Zephrine, as agile as they come. Still, the sootmarked scents of her family had been washed from her periphery, and she was left to struggle alone.

Having picked her way this far despite the inundation from the heavens, she sought comfort along a well forested ridge and took a moment to shake the excess from her narrow shoulders. As she carefully strode among the trees she kept to the dry patches when possible; however, it was becoming increasingly more difficult to do so. The greenery around her was slick and dark with rain, but so beautiful too, and reminded her of the homestead she could never again return to. Her heart hurt.