Mount Apikuni abracadabra

The passage of morning; pastel and muted, and then filled with chorale birds. She watches it — has watched the dawning for each of her whole lives, like it was something she was meant to do without even being told — as shafts cascade throughout the rockfelled hinter, careless but for the behemoth beneath the Wilds. The very creature at the helm for all the earthshatter had near fallen into slumber; the shiverings of soil had become only further and few in between. There had not been much to be affrighted of  (save the hungering of her people)  and so the fée bared waxen throat to the last of harvest sunwarmth.

Indeed she had returned to the Emberwood, as she had told the cloudgiant and his shying kith; indeed, too, had she foraged all that she could, had toted bushel upon bushel to the makeshift stores of the Court; and yet she had returned, too, to this very same mountain, if only to look upon another’s sundered spine  (as she might never look upon her own).

Musculature hummed with the delightful exertion of laboring away; and when her gaze unveiled from such heady dozing, the muted, half-numbed eyes alit now upon a wisping and wizened wanderer, traipsing not at all too far away. A most curious print between those brows— “Have you a resting place, for ze coming winters?”