Emberwood you just don't have any--what's the word--talent.

Fear no more the heat o' the sun whispered some random voice rising from the fathomless silence of Saarthal's mind, fear no more the heat o' the sun nor the furious winter's rages. The heat was getting to her. The heat, the ugly piss yellow colour of the sun (godforsaken thing) creeping over everything, crawling into all the crevices and burrows and nooks and holes - she wondered, absentmindedly, if this sunlight was light from the past in the sense that it was time-travelling light, as it'd had to travel all the way from the sun to this soil she was clambering so clumsily over; all those light years, all that time it took to get from the sun to this planet, and god, why was it still so bloody hot if it'd travelled so many light years to get here? how? why? - it was enough to drive the sanest of all wolves insane. And if Saarth had learnt anything from her very limited time on this planet, it was that she was far from sane, whatever that meant. Indeed, in the grave, one no longer needed to fear this heat, this goddamn "fucking sun should just fuck off," she mumbled, cursing, kicking at the ground, watching apathetically as leaves and twigs spat ungratefully into the air, rustling loudly, probably alerting everyone within a five mile radius that she was here. Fucking forest. Oh, how she wished she were dead; she should've flung herself off that cliff, she knew she should've. Fucking pussy. Ugh.