Fairspell Meadow she picked wild flowers

She was caught, then, between the burning desire to flee and the rage that scorched her chest - did she make an escape when a free moment came, or did she continue her display of pure frustration? What good would come of remaining here? The odds did not appear to be in her favour and so the logical answer presented itself to her.

Run, her troubled mind had made a decision and yet it seemed she was too late. Sharp teeth collided with her white shoulder and a large weight was shoved against her lithe body, collapsing harshly to the ground. With almost a gasp, a shocked exhale of frosted air releasing from the dove's muzzle, she awoke laying in the cold snow. Already the ground was stained with blood and the beauty of the snow was cursed with dark red as it seeped from her neck, and now her shoulder it seemed.

The ghost was trapped now. The hound above her had succeeded in his attempts to knock her down, and she stared up at him. In her chest, the anger was swiftly replaced with an icy cold fear, heart increasing the rapid beats that shook her body. She should have run. In her ocean eyes there seemed only blankness, a hollow emptiness that only one lost could possibly hold within their grasp. Yet despite her lack of expression, the shivers that took hold of her figure were enough to give away the fear she tried desperately to mask.