The Sunspire ground blizzard

@Andraste || 32F, Foggy, Mid-morning

Although the snow had halted, it still remained in the morning. Fog had swept in to make it a rather pale scene on the Sunspire's usually green oasis. Still he was enamored with the scene. Not once in his life had he seen so much snow. Some of it piled up from the sweeping winds through the mountain range and other spots enough for him to bound through.

In a feverish, but almost childlike state, he moved with large bounces. Each time he dipped down to meet the earth in landing he was brushed by the cold against his underside. Still he didn't seem deterred from making this travel in a fun fashion.

When she had first glimpsed the yearlings of her Court romping about the snows with unrivaled glee, there was no other thing that she wished to indulge herself in  (a little lie, in itself)  than to have their infectious delight whisk her own spirit into such innocent rapture ... but within the lands of the vale, Andraste was Undómiel, and therein was the maintenance of much dignity. So, under the  (truthful!)  pretenses of scavenging for any scraps that she might tote on the return, the fée flit from the wealds which had rooted her very soul for how-ever, now;
and only when she removed herself fully from the eyes of curious and cautious courtlings did the stricken let herself soar throw frost in a manner that a cackling raven had only ever been presented with, once upon a time.

Eventually, the murmurings of a vole had given her reason to stumble; reason to think amidst the boreal bumblings that had cloistered themselves within her errant, whelp-spun mind —
— and no sooner had she leapt without a single thought had she thusly become apprehended by her own trickster belly.

Again.

Bum-up to sky! No amount of flurry-footing over her own shadow would be enough for her to save herself. Whimpers, muted; vole, uncaught; dignity, mere tatters.

She would have been difficult to spot in the snow anyhow, it did not help that she was half hidden. Any sounds muffled by snow. It would only be the odd fluttering kicks that summoned his attention. He would watch for a moment. Perhaps a weak baby tree had been dusted in snow and whipped with the winds? Then in the whispering of the winds he could just barely hear sounds. Trees, to his knowledge, did not make those sort of sounds.

He would trudge to the location of the sky reaching legs. Carefully he would aim to begin digging around her torso, mindful in case any more feverish kicks would happen. The last thing he desired was another head injury.

tiny reply, muse died unexpectedly

Only hours from this little encounter of a snow-day would the fée realize again that there was little breath to be found, here; hinds had somewhat settled, scrabbling at the frost beneath a tail that feathered furiously, now, at the prospect of aid coming along the way. The shoveling at the line of her shoulder, again again again; could not dare to hope that it might be someone familiar. Freedom was eventually found, however;
and it was with a rocking-backness of  “O!”  that Andraste gobbled up the airs and looked upon a face that was most certainly not familiar — who would nonetheless recieved a half-dumb smile of frozen, shorn lips slurring  “S-ssuilánte,” from a starlit she-wolf who blinked bleary the snows from dark lashes.