Golden Glade It's been established that time is not a rigid construct.

She hadn't eaten in (what felt like) days. It could've been weeks for all she knew. It became apparent the longer she was awake and the more she traveled that there was something wrong with her. That the fog that had descended upon the morning was more than just an icy mist clinging to the earth. There was something foggy about the thoughts in her own head. 

That's stupid, Bronze murmured to herself as she roamed the hinterlands. There's nothing wrong with me. I mean aside from being hungry, and tired, and occasionally throwing up bile because the vertigo makes everything so uncomfortable — wait. Why am I talking?

There was nobody to talk to here. It felt like she was talking just for the sake of hearing her own voice; but surely she hadn't been roaming this place for that long? What had come before this? Before the ice and snow, the big lake, the whistling elk from hours ago — ?

In realizing she hadnt' the foggiest idea, Bronze was overwhelmed by a sense of worrisome silence. Her feet stopped moving and she came to a halt beneath a copse of trees layered thickly with icicles and fresh snow, and she waited there while trying to remember. But she couldn't, and it was unnerving.