Dawnlark Plains Stop, what the hell are you talking about?

As promised, Wylla left at first light.

The sky was barely beginning to blush when she departed the cold mountain in the sheer darkness, leaving any of her would-be companions to give their farewells and conclude their own business. She would scout ahead. From the small collection of trinkets Mahler had brought her in the days leading up to the snapping of her soul, she selected just one—the curled strip of fragrant cedar—and carried it away with her. She didn't know exactly why she did this, only that she needed to.

First she climbed the neighbouring rise to get a good look at her surroundings, but there was nothing she didn't already know. Prairies to the south, and then the Sunspires. The sea to the west, but the sea had only ever brought ruin to her life. Nothing good that way. The east was unknown to her and seemed like a good direction to go in if she wanted to get lost. North, the broken fragments of her heart eternally frozen to the mountainside.

She chose south, knowing at least the Sunspires were familiar to her and her company alike, making good progress into the plains by the time the sun burned full in the sky. Her movements were choppy and frigid, but all at once the weight of everything crashed over her, bringing Wylla to her knees to tremble over the bit of cedar that tumbled from her jaws.