Heron Lake Plateau Lots of booze, and lots of ramblin'

A quiet grey dusk had settled over the summery glade when Raleska stirred. She sleepily squinted out into the hazy light, noticing both Svalinn and her mother were still asleep. For some reason the girl was fretful. As she stared at the stone archways of their den she suddenly felt quite alone, isolated, and cut off from both slumbering forms next to her.

They looked so content in their sleep; perhaps they walked in dreams far away in an eternal autumnal bliss, reunited with the fragmented ghosts of their family. Perhaps they dreamed of the seeping warmth of a full belly, or the peaceful lull in a navy-blanketed night with a crisp crescent moon.

Raleska had no such dreams; they were neither blissful nor quiet. She dreamed not of tranquil glades far away, nor of softly dappled hills mor fondly remembered faces. Raleska dreamt only of the towering, imposing eyes of the beasts that had turned them away, their figures distorted, their faces gnarled, and their words colder than even the deepest wellspring. She dreamt of her brothers' faces, gaunt and starved and some nights they crept into her world unbidden, eyes sunken back into grim and ghostly skulls. She dreamt of the desolation of her father, his emaciated and beaten form contorted beyond reckoning.

Their fell forms and features snaked their way daily into her sleeping realm, and wickedly, wrenched her often from sleep.

Sitting there with her eyes heavy in exhaustion, Raleska gave one last look to her known surviving relatives - and then with a sense of overwhelming loneliness, walked out into the embracing night.