Shadowwyn Moor he beseeched him lay a hand upon fever-hot brow

@Sif

Once the warm haze of poppy wears off, she turns back on her heel, floating south. Her fading buzz takes with it the calmness with which she's accepted her lot, but the conclusion she'd reached in conversation with Mary sticks. This is an opportunity for freedom. At the time it'd seemed like a moment of clarity, a realisation that nothing truly binds her now.

But faced with it now, it feels like it should be suffocating. It is, if nothing else, too large for her to grasp so suddenly, and she suppposes she should be a little more patient with herself. There is no need to keep self-flagellating. No one is coming to judge her. She has to keep repeating that to herself: no one is coming to judge her. She has decided she will keep company with Wardruna, whatever that entails, and she wonders if she is trading in one set of sacrosanct sanctions for another. But there's no way for her to know that, not yet. 

It is snowing today, and some small piles have collected on the overturned trees in her path. What a strange and gloomy space, so different from the lushness of the fields she's passed already. Poet sighs and approaches a thin stream, lowering her head to take a drink. There is no one coming to judge you, she says aloud, under her breath, and closes her eyes.