Hushed Willows like one of those old greek tragedies

Not far, laid just out of reach, was the fawn. Her. Little Doe! Once conqueror of mountainside had drifted down the slopes in the shadow of Arórëlen. With the season (fever stil under her skin, uncured) and sudden tragedy, she did not stray. To be stronger than fae and fawn is what she wished.

He was a landmark among untouched blankets of icy cover. Although she — fleet footed, Little Doe! — is light, she did not tremble into nothing upon an approach. ' quite quaint! ' Warmth in tone with attempt to cast light upon their dreary days.