Meadowlark Prairie what was and what shall be again

Sunlight filtered through the haze, the crooked shadows cast out by the tree held him in a perfect frame as he idled about. The crisp air didn't stop the panting, nor did he shake every droplet of dew and moisture off his back. There was absolutely nothing out here really, nothing at all that would emboldened him to hunt or to search. There was a silence here that was deafening and prophetic to far worse things if he were to linger, he thought.

These fields had once been rather full of life, but not even the birds dared to sing.

His gaze swung around, back the way he had come, and even in the fog he couldn't quite make out the staggering jut of Moonspear itself. It was obscured, nestled in with the forests that hid behind that ghastly veil. They had been fortunate thus far, but for how much longer? The quaking earth had not dismantled their mountain and the hunting had been fair up until recently, but he found worry pinching at the corner of his thoughts all the same.

The smoke and ash on the wind did little to comfort him either.

So when she spoke, it wound a thread tight in his chest but he could never ignore her. His head whipped around long before the rest of his body turned to meet her; the recognition was there steadfast and stalwart, but an apprehensive grip held his tongue. She looked worn and thin, worse than he remembered her being—but at least she was alive.

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