Stavanger Bay windmill, windmill for the land

I'm back!!!

The thing about silence, if you asked Ragna, was that it didn't exist.  It never had, and it never would.  There was an absence of sounds, wherein no creature stirred in the trees and no voice dared utter a word.  But if that fell for long enough (but the time one had to wait was always shorter than it seemed) one could hear the distant crash of the waves on the shore, the whisper of the wind in the trees, and a soft susurrus of the world turning.

On days such as this, when the air was thick and warm and the distant hills were hazy, Ragna didn't like to do much.  She liked to walk a little ways away from the (sometimes) noisy den and find peace in the thought that gods once walked in this same forest.  That she was treading in their paths, her paws small in comparison to great paws and hooves and feet.  And when she knew that she was absolutely alone, she would imagine that she, too, was one of the gods.  That she was great, and powerful, and adored.  Today, she found herself truly alone.  So she paced through the trees, practicing a confident march that spoke of power.  She held her head up, her chest puffed out, and imagined that her steps shook the earth and that the trees themselves bowed before her.