Moonspear where has thout been through

Her aim wasn't precise, a desperate attempt of capture that landed Desdemona falling into the snow, cooling down the dissaray of flames. Headfirst into the sheet of winter, she quickly scrambled up to catch his glimpse before his fade, however he was gone, for he was never here, only a nightmare that sent an illusion. Before her was a pale wolf, but not of silvers and whites, but honey and sand, "I," she choked, "I'm sorry."

She knew, Othello couldn't be here. No mere wolf could simply trespess and go so far without being stopped, even if one sly as him, a scent cannot be hidden. Gingerly she got up, Desdemona realized her mistake and offered her apologies again, "I'm sorry, I mistaken you as someone else and attacked." She knew it wasn't an excuse, but an explanation to her confusion and sudden pounce, to which her head dipped low to a bow for condolences to the tan beauty. Eyes kept low, and mind was miles away, for her thoughts continued onto him. Othello, where are you?