Morningside Cuesta and in the trembling blue-green of the sky

she drifted across the grassplain, out of place in the still flatness. in the manner of pale storm-cloud ripped asunder and set loose in the world did she roam, drifting, carefully, etherreal in every manner of the word. starlight glimmered a thousand times over in night's thick mantle, thrown over the world with great care each evening and pulled back carefully with the coming of every day. 

there is an old wolf that resides over the heavens, and it is his task to robe the world in atramentous, star-riddled night each evening, and to pull it away come morning. in his role he is proud, and steadfast, and never has he faltered. each night he brings beauty, a time to hunt and to tell tales, to take part in the old ways and to live.

pausing atop spindly limbs did the starchaser finally cede that night's wandering, for already did the horizon wane with the coming of dawn. amaranthine glinted from her finely cut face; it was not genetics that carved out the angles of her form so; rather sickness and hunger had etched themselves into her frame long before she had murmured her first tale. she settled then on some barren earth, content only to watch and listen to the cosmic chords of the night, the gentle inhale, exhale of the universe so soft and subtle.

spindly outlines clawed at the heavens, clustered here and there as if the plain had revolted against itself, sending envoys in the form of conifers to grasp desperately at the glittering expanse of the sky. they were out of place in the wide-open, it's uniformity. but her gaze did not linger on the trees, rather, they searched the sky as they always did, began a silent ritual of naming and of pulling together. there was orion, and as her gaze slid from star to star, and as she always did, she began to wonder

She did not know what pulled her so far south; as always, she attributed it to fate.  If she found someone to bed her for the night, so be it.  If she did not, she would enjoy the solitude.  She had not been out of the territory since she had met Saarthal, and she became lost as she dreamed of the young girl's stormcloud pelt, of her hawkish gaze.

Further south she forged, now accompanied by the cacophany of night; cricketsong, the chattering of coyotes.  In the distance, moonlight hit a stranger to where they appeared so bright she could've mistaken them for an apparition.

Nervously, hungrily, she drew her tongue across her lips and moved forward before she chuffed.

here and again flickered words, fragments of tales that flared to life with every shifting of her gaze, every star softly named and blessed. and to did the starseeker allow the fragments to fade back into the crystalline pool of her mind from whence they came, admiring, remembering, and letting go. coyotes began their brash cries, somewhere to the northeast a kill had been made and portions fought over; the sound caused the barest rippled across the surface of her memories before dissipating, fading again into the background. 

ah, but this sound did not blend seamlessly with the night, nor did it's owner. crown tilted downward to allow the stranger to enter her field of vision, gaze refocusing to come to settle on the woman before her, not the distant galaxies that crowned her head. she did not offer a greetingin turn, instead refocussing on something beyond the woman's head. there came no acknowledgement of Eris's presence until a single breathy word eased into existence, wavering a moment before fading. "Laelaps."

it seemed for a moment she hadn't spoken, the nonsensical word having, perhaps, been nothing more than an exhalation of breath. "the great hound, created by the universe, gifted with the ability of perpetual success in the hunt. a wolf of golden pelt, a grey hound; the tales differ. do they not always? still. they guarded the mortal form of the thunder-god when still he remained trapped in mortal pelt, and thus too were they gifted with long life."  the starseeker paused, for a moment, and it seemed she'd finished her short-lived tale. but now, it was merely to allow her gaze to refocus, to allow her gaze to settled and see, for the first time in entirety, her audience.

"one day did the hound come across the trail of the teumessian fox, some great and ravaging beast that was untamable its monstrosity, and destined by the stars never to be caught. but the hound had selected it's prey, and so the universe was left with a paradox of its own making. and so the cosmos reached onto this plain, and pulled from both creatures their souls, setting them out among the stars and turning their forms to rock; a hunt eternal, destined never to continue." now, came silence, the cosmic wraith having made her offering.  

Laelaps, came a gentle whisper, so soft that it might not have been an exhalation but rather a figment of her imagination.

And then the ethereal breathing breathed to life a story of such finespun detail that the Keil shivered, drawing closer as if she were entranced.  Wildfire eyes met the amaranthine jewels of the starseeker, the scholar effectively ensnared.  She kept walking towards the whitefurred apparition until she were close enough to touch, and slowly she craned her head until her jaw rested parallel to the woman's upturned snout before brazenly she whispered, And tell me, storyweaver, what am I to you?

Fate.

nearer did her audience approach, words swirled delicately, to ensnare, draw near. words were her weapons, if she were brutish enough to name them such; no, perhaps they were something finer, something that did not seek to found but to ensnare, enrich. the din of the coyotes, somewhere far beyond, faltered, failing, leaving behind only the soft cacophony of the night insects. some hunter wheeled and plummeted high above, the softest brush of feather's audible even here, but unnoticed. 

then did she study the eyes, suddenly before her. they danced; not in the hues of some faint nebula but in the raging flame of a wildfire, hot and rampant in its destruction. it was discord, passion, set like jewels into the crown of the diminutive woman. for a long moment did she study the gaze, allowing the question to made into silence as if unheard; impossible, so loud and discordant against her own murmurs. finally, softly. "perhaps nothing. perhaps more. it is not my decree." she did not elaborate, did not bother explaining that she did not carry the answer to that; as the universe bestowed divine gifts so did it bestow divine fates, if theirs should be intertwined was a secret hidden from her own searching gaze into the stars. 

she did not ask her name, something so inconsequential as the title given by another to one's soul meant little, save for those cases rare and few. "you are of the wildfire. there are few tales etched in the stars that speak of fire; of dragons and destruction, yes, but not of the sort that dances in your crown." the words were little more than whispered musings, outwardly, but there was thought behind the words; intent, or the mistborn would not have uttered them aloud.