Though it is no later than mid-morning, the day begins to dim as fallen pine needles turn to carmine leaves beneath cloven hooves, until day seems like dusk, the little remaining light congealing over the foliage like clotted blood. The roan girl steps quietly through this strange forest, leaving a trail of florid blossoms which gleam in the cracks between dead leaves. A raven the color of fresh-fallen snow rides on her back, eyes like ruby shards casually observing the passing scenery. He croaks occasionally to break the oppressive silence of the red leaves, usually eliciting an amused smile from his slender vehicle. Lothíriel revels in her new discovery, for contrary to the predilections of her ancestors, the queen of flowers favors woodlands over the ocean, and any new forest to wander is always a happy novelty. She adores the darkness between trees and the coolness which gathers there in the heat of summer—she loves how quietly her split hooves can tread on decaying foliage, and the constant melody of bird-song at the peak of spring. But they do not sing here, at least not today, a detail which proves to be disconcerting to the pale-maned maiden. 

Black ears twitch when they catch the distant roar and rumble of falling water. Thrusting her nose far into the air before her, Lothíriel proceeds towards the cascade at an easy trot, footfalls almost silent as she continues along her chosen path. The forest rushes past her in a crimson blur; occasionally her glance is drawn upwards towards the far-flung canopy, the thick mass of red leaves obscuring any semblance of a sky. She frowns. In the distance, the queen of flowers can see the dim glitter of something liquid, something like blood. Her heart flutters with morbid excitement, with macabre glee—she must know if it is really blood. Dark hooves hurry toward it, their haste graceless; her curiosity has been piqued and she cannot refuse it. Closer and closer she draws, until she can see the cascade fully. It is magnificent and red; even in the false night of the trees, the richness of the fluid's color is plainly noticeable. Daring to move even closer to the falls —so close she can feel the cascade's vibrations in the soles of her feet—Lothíriel sticks out her tongue to taste the strange bloody substance. Expecting the singular taste of blood, she is instead met with the cool taste of freshwater. Another frown, this time one of disappointment. 

Has the world run out of real wonders to uncover?