Like the fleeting warmth after a mother's embrace, Lothíriel clung to the lake's fronds, watched her reflection as it rippled across the surface. A willowy girl looked back at her, with delicate features and two-colored eyes hidden by a forest of pale lashes much too long for a baby's face. Patches of sleek adult and downy infant fur made a tattered effect on the gosling's head, like she had gotten into a brawl with rogue scissors. Rain came down, providing a mute grey background and calming the child's dizzying sense of unease. Lothíriel felt comfortable in this warm drizzle that made pinpricks over the sullen cloudy grey of the lake's face—it reminded her of Mama, of safe things. Her dam had left the nestling alone for the day, for she had important business to tend to, that warranted the loneliness of her daughter.

Head inclined to the level of the lake, and she thrust her muzzle inside it, relishing the icy coldness of the glacial water and sending the wide rings of ripples gliding across the previously pristine surface. She watched the ripples traverse the lake until they disappeared entirely, replaced by the queer calmness of bright grey. Little flowers, the only suggestion of color in the bleak valley, bloomed cheerfully around her, spreading determinedly across the shore she stood upon. What is Papa doing? she wondered, lifting her face to watch the dreary mountains that loomed imminently overhead, like stone sentinels safeguarding prize jewels. Lothíriel always missed her father terribly when he wasn't around, which was often, for he was an important man and had many other duties than minding his daughter. She wondered what that eminent job entailed: did it tax him? Did he have to fight? The idea both enthralled and frightened her; the prospect of bloodletting and life-threatening situations overwhelmed the filly, whose life was a happy blur of the love of her parents and often dull peace. Although Mama disapproved of such things, she knew, many of her stories often depicted (much toned down versions) of war and battle; such things in life were inevitable, and it would be unfair not to impart this knowledge to the young and tender. Lothíriel wondered if she'd be a warrior like her sire one day, though the mere idea of dirtying her coat with sweat, dirt and blood made her abandon that line of thought entirely; she'd be content to romp through the Basin all day and return to the warm embraces of her parents for all her life.

@[Rhiannon]