Wapun Meadow why don't you run from me?

omg i loved that

the doe slipped off into the misty-shouldered forests. astara sent a thousand silent curses after her form: may you rot, may you die, may your children all wither and suffer before you.

how many times would the omen weave in and out of her life, like an errant thread? and would it be there, doe-eyed and watchful, as she shook her last breath from her unwinding throat?

it seemed the red-pelted she-wolf was something of a visualist - a seer - astara thought of averna and how she walked with one part of her soul in another plane. she lowered her head and scented the wind for the rest of the herd, eager to let loose her pent up energy and forget about trifles such as superstitious ladies and strange, reoccurring omens.