Fairspell Meadow sangre

her lashes fluttered; her eyes did not open. the sun slowly swirled her mind into fever. "juárez," she murmured, rolling to one side; she lay fetal and curled there. "crowfeather." she walked! she walked in some dreaming; she was lost, lost, and beneath the stranger's eyes she whispered once more; "akashingo." silvertongue wet her lips and found no more energy for speaking; she faded back against the meadowgrass and kept her gaze shuttered against the sun, against the shadow which fell across her. the man's voice; man; men. she was prepared to give, but no more of herself than the pantherman had taken. maybe this one would see fit for her transationality.