Otter Creek she was poetry in a world

the canyon is striking in an otherworldly, foreign way, and yet the warlord longs still for something besides red rock and sand, small sinew reptiles and sand betwixt her teeth. and so she's crested the edge of redsand early that morning, cutting south-east and into the vague familiarity there. she skirts the northern edge of the wood, lacking any real desire to enter that ever-familiar treeline. ever since she'd returned, the secrets and memories there had first seemed faded, mundane; but since the fever something different tugs at the edges of her memories. 

rain begins to fall as she trails a semi-familiar creek, just as a smoke-etched figure looms ahead. her mind returns immediately to the dream that seemed so far removed and yet etched into memory, and her auds press forward. but this is a very different face than the one her minds jumps to, and any tension laced betwixt her shoulderblades eases. "praimfaya," greets the warlord, flicker of gladness at this interruption of her solitude. 

"have you found the boy you sought?" she'd not been having much success in her task last they'd met, though weeks had passed in a messy blur of days and hours since. still, she'd not known any success to come from chasing myths, as the commander had described him.