Dawnlark Plains v. "hope is the thing with feathers - that perches in the soul"

The swamp had extended between the great monolith of Sunspire and the drastically smaller peak known as Redtail Rise. Skirting the periphereals of the bog with utmost care delivered her from the treachery of a watery mishap but the flaxen femme was not completely spared; Elve had tumbled into the depths after a slip of paw and arrived in Dawnlark thickly frosted with a coat of mud. 

The stench of the ooze greatly offended her pink little nose, scrunching the scarred flesh of her tapering snout and misting her cerulean eyes with a film of tears. It was her utmost goal at moment to find a body of water and take a much needed bath. 

The winter-dusted grasses did not immediately register as she breached the mini tundra, preoccupied as she was by her uncomfortable situation. 

Her gaze was fixated absently forward as she plodded along - a moist squelch accompanying each step - and it would not drift downwards until she drifted to a halt, vaguely noting that her paws had grown cold. 

Sluggishly, the muddy Sami's head tilted so that her watery eyes sought the ground. 

A tiny jerk tugged her body not unlike a marionette on strings, butterfly ears flying up in an oh! motion as her eyes widened a tic. 

The golden fae dropped her water-logged caribou pelt - which had been wrapped into a ball around her belongings and carried in her jaws as she navigated the marsh - with relief, straightening her bowed neck with a soft groan. Her bones popped as she shifted and stretched, taking a proper survey of her surroundings. 

The tundra almost reminded her of home - almost for it was still shades milder than Sapmi - a winterland of snow-dipped scrubgrass and cold winds. A hush presided over the vale, seemingly devoid of life. Yet, scents hid beneath the frost and tracks amongst the seared grass. A loose feather here, a cropped grazing patch there, the odd wallow or scat. 

The scent trails of prey beckoned but even more promising was the scent of freshwater. 

Reluctantly, Elve bent with a sigh and gathered her sodden pelt. With a great heave that quivered her thin muscles and ached her jaws, the cursed woman trekked determinedly onward in search of the source. 

Over-long ears scoped, tilting as they detected the burble of a shallow creek. 

Pausing only to place her caribou fur upon the bank, Elve plunged into the waters with a leap that was more doe than wolf as soon as the stream came into view.