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A feather, rosy, veined pale pinks, edged in filigree gold, drifted from the trees tall with rustling leaves sweet apple and olive; emerald and moss; jade and viridian. Surrounded by the forest bursting with life, youth and old age, new beginnings and cycles turning once again, Tor felt strangely small, overshadowed by the burgeoning life; the mice peeking out from under leaves, delicate pink noses tentatively twitching, the birds fluffing downy wings and tending to hatchlings, the rabbit pounding through the woods, feet beating a rapid tattoo on the forest floor.
Spring. It is the turning of the year, the renewal, the rebirth, the renaissance, the awakening. It should be a time to put the memories ill behind oneself, to let the breeze smelling of budding flowers bring the good ideas, the values. Yet right now, Tor only felt heavier, only felt more pressured. How did she explain it? Like she was fragile, spreading thin over bones, but outwardly she appeared very little different, apart from the gradual paling of her coat.
The lady shifts her heavy bones, easing a hoof underneath her, ears searching for that tell-tale crunch of another soul moving through the trees amongst the birds' chirps and chords and songs. Indeed, her ears do catch the sound, and for a moment panic enters her, seizes her, clutches at her bones, threatens to suffocate her as it enters her lungs; what is she doing here? Why is she breaking bonds from the Gray? Won't Mirage set new restrictions on healing now? Then the alarm is gone, and the world comes back, mists pale and hued with gold.
Tor turns, this time placing her feet a little more carefully under her, nostrils filled with the scent of Edge and the scent of new life. Her soft brown eyes, so very clearly kind and selfless, settle on a mare nearly a hand smaller than her. She is darker than a starless sky, with a kind of rippling shadow-like form to her, and she somehow seamlessly is one with the world, like she has sprung up from the ground. Gold flares up, like the sun hitting the night-cloaked world, from her legs, gradually fading into the ebony coat, broken by a white strip upon the mare's haunches. Tor recognizes her, faintly, and is met by a fresh surge of guilt upon the mare's words.
Why do you hesitate? You have walked in these woods before. Her voice is dry and almost emotionless, despite remaining cordial, and for a strange moment Tor resists the urge to run away. Yet her feet cloaked in feathers remain still on the floor. "I was not myself when I trespassed earlier. It was rude, and careless, of me to do so. And I was hoping I could perhaps speak to one of the Edge."
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![[Image: winter_snow_by_ladyfey-d5g626q.png]](http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2012/271/6/a/winter_snow_by_ladyfey-d5g626q.png)
