Hideaway Strath moonlight casted upon sinner's skin

Again, the waif was left uncertain of where she stood -- or where to start for that matter. 

Again, she found herself an unbound soul drifting through a sea of strangers. A ghost having taken up her nightly haunts (for fear her cries in the dark might wake another) though not amongst the sangria and red stone she had seen in her dreams. 

The gypsy was different this time, to say the least: quiet and still like the winter that hung in the dawn around her, shrouded in a palpable grief that wrapped about her thin frame like a thick, woolen shawl. The only thing she knew for certain was that as she stepped lightly through the woodland of the Strath that was to be her home, it was a weight that did not weigh on her sapling shoulders quite as heavily. 

Doe-like, the sylph flitted amongst the grey trunks as she familiarized herself with Donav's kingdom. Something akin to the reverence the druids had preached of reached the moonstones settled within her winterworn features as they drank in her surroundings -- silhouettes of the wood softened by the ashen light before sunrise. 

Perhaps everything was different but her heart did not seem to think so, for some portion of it thawed and warmed as she shifted into a brisk trot -- roving between the trunks on shadow-quick steps, a blip of darting white. In time, it would feel like home, as the people who resided in the shadows would too. 

The midwife kept this optimism at the forefront of her mind as she explored, wondering if she might come across one of her fellow Saints with equal parts eagerness and anxiety.