Deepwood Weald [m] and you can hold me, like he held her

potential oncoming heat. throwing a wrench in my girl's life to shake her up as I get back into the swing of things.

Branded—beneath the skin. It was the only way she could describe it, and instinctively she left the whimsical forest she temporarily called home, slinking through snow and wind across the wide expanse of open meadows. Evening settled on the horizon—painting the picture of amber yellow and orange—the sun dipping lower past a cloudless sky and the backdrop of another woods.

It beckoned her—shadowed—comforting in that moment, and she found her shoulder brushing the length of a tree, the hush of winter silence a boon in that moment.

Forneskja was home to boisterous warriors—even when they were quiet, their energies were loud.

Here, perhaps, she could breathe—perhaps, she could determine the next moment of her life.

For now, she could reign the heat of her skin—the ache.

For the silence in this moment was not just a craving, but a need.