Whitefish River Little White Fish

The pitsiark's lips curled with kinship, a brief illumination of sun over the icy tundras of her countenance. "Do you miss it?" The fae asked of him unintrusively, a chord of bittersweet nostalgia twanging beneath the notes of her musical rasp. 

The winterlands were truly in her blood: her heart was home to crumbling, ice-capped mountains, glaciers bluer than any sea or sky, coniferous forests frozen in snow and silence. She longed for the bite of arctic winds in her lungs, the burn of permafrost beneath her paws. Perhaps it was something else they shared in common, this poignant loss of familiarity. 

"Zis land..it is so green. So open and big," the last was exhaled, seelie eyes lifting to the wide expanse of white winter sky overhead - seen without the screen of a pine needle canopy. 

"It is scary sometimes," she chuckled breathily as her gaze returned to him, something like exhilaration hitching her breath.