Whitewater Gorge i wish i could rub the grief from you as if it were a smudge on the cheek

Current date, vaguey vague. @Mahler!

—and her quarry proves elusive once more, flitting into the green depths of a gorge that she hopes the blacktail will shorn itself across.

What was the use of praying to gods she’s never held faith for?
Aurëwen lingers at her disturbed post, half-sight soured with a private humiliation. The blasted cervine had swept from her grasp time and again, before both it and she arrived to this place where the riverway settled into the earth’s embrace far, far below. It’s vastly tempting to pursue it...
but, seeing the stone there  (and what track-trails she cannot),  the silver decides against it with nothing more than a chagrined feather of her tail.

She supposes that, as she's here, she could forage about the liminal lines; see what green she could tote back to the bear’s claim; busywork, if her irked, hung figure was anything to scrutinize.
So, turning from her forfeit of a hunt, Aure begins to pick her way about the gushing gorge, red-hewn crown low, studious.