Morningside Cuesta the one who never spoke

AW (@Dægmar feel free to hop into this if you were interested in these two meeting up. I just got excited to start threading again lol.)

a thin layer of ice crackled underfoot as the elven creature picked her way across the frozen terrain. an ethereal figure, one that  did not quite belong and yet, appeared to be crafted of the winter all the same. so small and pale, she all but disappeared whenever she halted in her tracks. 

the anxious corner of her mind - the place where lingering insecurity had tarnished the woodgrain of her very being with the stains of uncertainty - whispered of being mistaken. for a time, as the land remained unchanged (at least to her) over the course of several days, the nomad began to question whether she had lost herself in a foreign land rather than the wilds she had come to think of as home. 

as if the landscapes of white, grey, and brown had undergone some magical shift, the valleys of frost-coated withered grass, bare branches and the occasional verdant splash of a strand of evergreens melded into something recognizable. 

aerin skirted the scarp that greeted her along the eastern edge of the cuesta, rounding through the trees at a slow pace. the air was still frigid and pale, small bursts of steam leaving her with every breath that chilled her lungs, with the cold that clung low to the ground in the still, dimly lit woods. and her bones jutted out slightly beneath the ivory silhouette of a thin, silky coat. it was best not to burn up all of her energy this early by forcing herself into a hasty speed to cover more ground.

the sun was just peaking over the cliffs as the sighthound loped over the dip of the ridge, casting the distant woodlands in dark shadows. the morning burned orange as day broke, the landmark living up to its name as sunlight streaked across the cuesta and the frost sparkled with a thousand shattered rainbows. 

it bathed the irisvar in a rosy glow as she stopped at the frosty banks of the creek, moonstones trailing over the scenery - flitting skyward as a burst of birds took wing from the canopy. her head tipped back, muzzle pointing straight upwards and floppy ears falling back with the movement, to follow their flight. 

it settled back to her surroundings as the botanist moved along the water's edge - hoping to avoid crossing if she could help it. 

a thought weighed heavy on her thin shoulders, her mind often wandering to where she would go from here. the wind had carried rumors of the empire's fall down to the canyon just days before aerin had fled in search of aliroth. and somehow, in some way, the survivalist just knew that the saints would be long gone even if she were to return to the desert. 

donovan was not of an ilk to inspire friendship or alliance, though even she could not deny having been charmed by his charismatic magnetism. even if his enemies, his war, had not driven him from the sangria dunes, the cold season surely would have as the desert morphed into a bitter wasteland devoid of prey. 

her fear for the future clung to her thoughts just as ice clung to every blade of dead grass and every twig upon every branch. but she couldn't quite afford that kind of worry. her methods for making it - through the winter and through the fog that entwined each thought numbly - allowed only for the closest objective, splintered into even tinier fragments. 

you must rise now. you need to keep walking, aerin. head south. scavenge from that carcass. you have to start walking again. 

"Caithfidh tú bia a fháil anois," the halfling whispered to herself, hardly audible. 

holy f*ck that became a novel.