Redsand Canyon searching for doors, looking through windows,

dated c. 01/28/2021 - 01/29/2021. (@Kynareth Deagon for reference once again)

when the drafts of ice and tundrian zephyrs at last began to die, the exiled lady drew from the hole where she'd sheltered for the past turn of the moon with no small sense of disbelief. it had almost felt as though the blizzard would never abate, forever trapping them in a miserable world even crueler than the winters of her northron homeland. the saluki parted ways with lovecraft as an ally -- imparting upon him an invitation to seek her out sometime if he happened across the canyons of the spire. or maybe the southern reaches of the flatlands. 

the atmosphere was surreal, hushed. it felt all too quiet without the winds of ice chasing them all underground like meek vermin, even though they still whipped against aerin's slim frame with harsh claws of cold. 

her thin shoulders hunched just the tiniest bit as the milkmother canted along, the muscles of her legs burning pleasantly with the freedom to stretch and move, as if queerly claustrophobic beneath the open skies. the world seemed too big, too bright, too much. as if the fae had been blinded for a moon and then had her sight restored. 

aerin did not bother to rush, she didn't have the energy reserves after the blizzard to gallop headlong towards the western range as she might've wished. and in any case, there might be other predators lurking nearby -- ravenous after a month in the darkness, and desperate too. 

the evening had tiptoed over the horizon by the time the pale wisp patted up to the borders on soft footfalls, casting the ravines in a muted hue of lavender. here, she halted to drink it in. 

the marbled stones had been smudged in charcoal and purples of all shades as they crumbled across sands turned white by the twilight and weaved mazes in the mountainside -- waves scultped of rock, frozen as they crashed and lapped through the desert. 

the names of the half-dead xeric that dared to burst from the sandy soil in defiance came to her like the names of old friends: creosote, mesquite, paloverde, ocotillo. 
 derg, dove, baptiste, donavon.

there was no outward shift of emotion on the northron's delicate features. she gave no sign at all that she noticed any difference in the canyons. 

but the dove of many names stood unmoving, expressionless, as the skies -- painted in gentle streaks of candyfloss, pink and blue and violet -- darkened to the wine of a staining bruise. 

when the shadows lengthened and darkened the place where once she'd been found, mutilated and maimed, the halfling would have moved on. accepting the ghostown for what it was and resolutely, resiliently setting her colorless gaze on the horizon. 

a ghost, the last, wandering amongst the tombstones of all those she had ever known -- or loved. one untethered to the place soaked in her loss and grief. 

she ssettled this upon creaky shoulders as if it were a heavy weight but not one she could not carry -- much as she shouldered the hard truth of the barren, empty desert. 

the saints were gone; donovan was gone. there was no home left to return to.