Barrow Fields a twist, a tale, a rip through my sail

The cast of the sun bore into her face, lancing her gaze. Lusca shrouded her profile from its white streaks, recanting her glow-edged muzzle to face away from the glare. Ducking into the shade, she scrubbed her hackles against a crowd of pine tree branches, then carried on with a flick of her tail and the trek of mincing steps, hips bobbing as she picked her way shoulder-to-shoulder with the tree-line. 

This was the furthest she had strayed from the bounds of Ankyra Sound in the weeks since her capture, and Lusca was glad for the independence. Vlad had made himself irrelevant as of late and no other soul that haunted Caiaphas' habitation cared enough to keep her scrappy little gudgeon from abandoning her post––an opportunity for freedom that she was unwilling to let pass her by. 

In the early hours of morning when Caiaphas hid away in the intricate, water-slick passages of her beloved grotto, Lusca slipped away, traveling long into noon until she came onto the stillness of the grasslands. Here was a place that stirred nebulous feelings––almost evocative in nature. The better part of her early days in the Teekon Wilds had been spent in this hub, and she couldn't help but hold close a fondness for its windfirm silence. 

Withdrawing to a lonesome and unfrequented space in the brush, Lusca sank to her elbows and supped from a rainfed puddle.