Hideaway Strath he walks the field at night

since abandoning her homestead, our father's omen had taken up shelter beneath the broad and teeming boughs that flushed the strath in blessed shadow. it was a good place to avoid a bulk of the  oppressing summer rays, and with a pelt as dark as hers she was smart to remain hidden. and yet, as wise as it would be to remain outstretched beneath the protective brambles in a swathe of brushwood, the eerie silence that precedes the appearance of another predator lured her from comfort.

she followed the signs until she was met with the sight of a husky teenager conformed to battle. she drew her red eyes across his taut, stilted frame, and she watched him loom pensively over an anomalous patch of small white flowers. omen knew a grave when she saw one.

she kept her distance, but came within the corner of the young male's view. then softly, with the tenderness of familiarity, she asked him: "how long has it been -- since they've been lost to you?"