Porcupine Ridge illuminate

@Andraste <3

Zuzuhakte recalled well the legend of Shëktti - of the winter that never ended - having been regaled with it as a dull-eyed child in recovery. 

Lakewater eyes drank in the elevated view, roaming appreciatively over distant peaks and ridges crowned by the straining, bony fingers of resting trees. The occasional patch of green, conifers, glimpsed startlingly from amongst the sea of muted browns and greys - the world gone cold and still, hushed as if its creatures paid respect to the death of the seasons. Or perhaps mourned the hardships and tragedies of their plight. 

Winter was not yet here but already the weather was frigid. Each morn the shaman woke to a numb nose and toes, shivering and quaking as she rose to run the chill from her bones, bathe in what warmth the sun could provide. 

Only late autumn and the land was perishing rapidly, promising an even harder winter. Would this realm too know the era of Shëktti? 

A shudder spasmed along her spine, whether in response to a sudden brisk breeze or her own musings - the Tipani could not be certain. In fact, there was only one thing to be certain of as her thoughts prompted that now familiar ache of loneliness nesting within her ribcage to strike with sudden ferocity. 

She must find a place to winter, soon.

        The mountains upon her; the misty remnants of the Vale brushing over her hips as the stricken heralded her departure with an airy fluting. Her ears cast away, empyrean eyes making a ponderous pass over the spearing stone that embraces the Vale like two strapping arms cradling something hallowed to its rocky breast; arms that cast heavy plum-shadows across the brushwood and stony earth, seizing all of Court below in unassuming dark. ...It was not unlike how her own half-haven had been, Andraste thinks. But it only soothes that aching, cruel chasming in her soul so much. It doesn’t coax for it, call for it the way she’d like; the way her herbalist might. She takes a breath, and it hitches in her throat as it always does, escaping back again as a small gasp ‒ Home. Finally, she hopes.

        The sky was unblemished, a high sapphire, but the late morning sun had yet to warm. All around the earth had been alive with the deep greens of midsummer; majoram and mint once piercing the soon-to-chill winds with their sharp fragrances; buttercup and forget-nots and snowdrop alike had once pushed through tangled growth, only to be bruised underpaw and hoar. Clutches of windswept pine reached for them from their rooted lees; muted soldiers in the needly earth that yet remained. 

        There were still hours, many and more of them, to go before the sun returned to the kiss the horizon; but she wasn’t so heartless as to not return before moonrise. The earth opens for them, light streams out through montane jaws; and knows somewhere high above, behind the thick cover of dawn, is Soronúmë, the stars that stand over the westwatch of the Sunspires like watchful sentinels.

        Halfsight flit back down to all-earth; soul having drawn her close to the wanderess without even noticing until, of course, it is impossible not to. She startles, and were she fae, dust might have shivered from wing'd fragility she's never had.  "Hello,"  lilting chords hushed, inquisitive for it is still morning, after all.