Deepwood Weald or a person i could call home.

@Kynareth Deagon  @Simmik edited notes: this is set in the southern edges of the Weald, near Alpine Lake. also set for 01/31/2021. <3

it was the dreams that drove her from the shores where the medic had established a small camp. it made no difference that the ivory waif forged a spine of steele to face each day, whatever torment that plagued her buried beneath a still visage not unlike the frozen lake that had become her home. 

in the night, the dove was reduced to a shrinking, wilted thing -- a winter rose, frostbite-blue petals curling inward as they bloomed with blossoms of frost. the visions were lucid, often horrific. clips and reels of all the gore and violence her life had seen. 

the morning she left, aerin had jolted awake with a wrenching gasp -- jumping almost immediately to her paws in her panic, scrambling to her feet. her head had whipped around only to find that no enemies lurked in the cornflower shadows of the dawn, as she'd thought. even so, something urgent still thrummed in her bloodstream -- whispering of escape and a craving for movement. 

she'd left the lake thinking only of stretching her legs but then, when she'd gotten far enough away to consider turning back, she didn't want to. instead, the sighthound kept trekking west patiently -- unable to answer whether she planned to return to the lake at all. 

wanderlust carried her northwest of the steppes, along the unfamiliar ranges that bordered the reaches of the wilds she had yet to explore. the gypsy stopped only occasionally, mostly to scavenge on the frozen remains of the blizzard's victims and to rest -- though she slept only sparingly and lightly.

the day was not quite done when she chose to settle down for the night, the afternoon having bled into smoky evening, but the silver sylph had covered quite a bit of distance today -- not to mention testing her thin limbs and rangy winter build to hunt for her dinner.

she curled herself into the cradle of a tree's roots, limbs folding beneath her gracefully like a doe's.

though the winds were soft, whistling and twisting through the canopy high above, they were intensely cold -- enough to snatch her breath from her lungs, or so it seemed. still, the weald was enchanting. fog filtered through the trunks, trickling like argent fluid as it flowed and broke against her skin coolly. 

the brumal nomad picked at the raccoon who'd had the misfortune of becoming her meal -- not allowing herself to fret over what lay over the horizon, if just for once.