Ouroboros Spine i babble on until my voice is gone

For Lightfoot, life was almost idealized. Hazy. Despite the deaths that marked her youth, she could almost look past them. Even now, with her mother’s whistling wheezes hitting her ears, she could only see the light in it.

A lot of things. She admitted softly, dropping back onto her stomach again to stare into the mouth of the ulaq.

Hawks. Salt. Ravens and crows. Deer. A lot about clouds and water. She looked up at her grandmother.

She wanted the clouds to come back.