Bramblepoint does not equal a weak one

the morning is early, the sun just cresting over the horizon — a fact tell tale by the level of greyness that struggles sluggishly to seep through the thick, heavy cloudfall that lays over every territory praimfaya's trudged thru thus far, starting from the fen which stands proudly in the distance at her back all the way to bramblepoint where she now — carefully — makes her way into. her once purposeful, confident pace slows to accommodate both the disorientation she abruptly feels at inability to clearly make our more than a few feet in front of her own nose and the berry bushes still prickly with thorns despite that their limbs are barren of foliage and fruits alike.

their barren appearance simply makes them appear more sinister than their deceptive visage of summer.

though praimfaya does not have high hopes of stumbling across any herd animals, she keeps a keen eye out for any sign of the rusalkan crone. the crone has not made an appearance since their run-in and the young worlida does not trust this quietness. did it mean, then, that she got isi in her clutches? or has she shifted her fixation elsewhere? either way, praimfaya exudes an air of controlled caution as she continues forth, towards bramblepoint's heart.

nanowrimo: 214