Bramblepoint does not equal a weak one

the sound of approaching footfalls draws the young worlida's attention, appearing to sound from all around her as the fog plays with praimfaya, distorting her sense of direction and leaving her feeling, more than once, heavy with disorientation. praimfaya's own steps cease then, guard hairs bristling with the trickling rise of uncertainty she feels. she is not a creature easily spooked and in the face of danger the ferocity that had burned so brightly within blodreina burns within her too. even so, praimfaya is woefully aware that she still has much to learn.

the voice that calls out to her thru the thick fogfall that blankets the ground is unfamiliar. not the crone. still, not being able to see the one that speaks to her, to judge how close they are nor determine how close the second set of approaching footfalls are leaves praimfaya feeling exposed. i'm sure it's lovely in full bloom, but in the desolation of the famine and coming winter it's true face is revealed to her. but i much prefer the fen that roangeda claims. in this, praimfaya harbors an extreme bias; but of course she does. it is the place her mother picked and though largely home is where her kru are she cannot entirely claim that she doesn't feel an attachment to broken antler fen. it's all she has left of blodreina now.

nanowrimo: 234