Meadowlark Prairie I was damned by the light comin' out her eyes

@Moonshadow

Freedom is just as delectable. 

Unencumbered by invisible chains, bound only by whatever morals and laws she deemed fit. 

She was Witch, Punisher, Storm-bringer as they had exalted her. 

She was free. 

One grows weary of war, of titles. It is not so with the notion of being her own. 

She savors each step into the new lands, each breath that pulls greedily into her lungs with the promise of all she had been denied. It was heady, intoxicating. 

Worries linger, buzzing like a noxious insect 'round and 'round the prison of a shadowed mind. It is true, a life of loneliness is not what she desires of this world. Yet, there is reluctance simmering beneath the firewood's charred flesh. 

She will not be slave again. 

Night had watched over the Wound-binder's entry of Teekon, dawn had seen her through the Flatlands. But morning, golden-rayed and so sweet of smell, greeted her upon the prarie. 

The birds had begun their daily ritual, flashes of speckled browns and vibrant yellows - almost painful to the eye in its hues - heralding the claim the song-callers held. 

Istoira was but an intruder upon their hail of the sun and warmth, unhurried stride halting and dark crown tilting. 

At the boundaries of the sea of steppes, on the cusp of a verdant fringe that rose well over her head, she stopped. 

Hellfire eyes flicked to the right as the breeze shifted, nose raising to greet the faint tendril of scent that reached and curled invitingly. 

The dark domain of a tangled and distant forest loomed upon the horizon though she was well off yet - the scent faint but hinting to the organization of a group. A group of her own kind. 

Eyes remained transfixed, searching.

Wondering.