There is love in your body but you can't hold it in,
It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin,
Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks,
And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

The winding earth still scorched, still simmered, a radiating torrent of power, might, and brawn of summer. Like a glistening wraith, it haunted, looming in the dusk, whispering in the dawn, drowning its victims in a heavy, cumbersome veil of heat, suffocating, stifling needles and nettles. It was a threatening balm, a burning cadence and cacophony, flushed along with the weight of shifting, changing worlds, blemishing with ember and ash, parching with cinder and coal. Inescapable, unavoidable, it peppered fine flesh, withered fresh blossoms, shriveled cool pools and desiccated glades. Severe, vigorous, strong, the season overbearingly cradled its land with an oppressive hand, choking with machinated snares, smothering with fiery talons around innocent necks. It strangled and suppressed, repressed and restrained – the result of brutality hung over many a terrain, dried into arid canvases of dirt and soot. It would only take a single look upon the Edge to judge what the Sun God had granted them in his severe, savage strike, with its burnt boughs and ruined scenery. An escape from its anarchy was in order.

She longed for the invigorating chill, the inviting, crisp setting of glacial interludes, the cold embrace of brisk, refreshing air. The light touch, the icy sensation, of fresh winds ghosting across one’s face, the exhilarating, intertwined paradise of revitalizing ether. And this desire, fueled by wayfaring, wandering idleness, listlessness, brought her to the Frostbreath Steppe. Sienna body layered and laced by the heat sought the comfortable sphere of icy pinnacles and wintry palisades, but her eyes caught the scene, a vivid portrait of the sun’s decadent rays, where they traced the frozen, gelid snow and melted the once firm rime. She might have been dismayed, disappointed, but continued onward in her valiant, intrepid way, cautious, meticulous in each poised step. Danger whispered, crooned, in the dimming sky and frost, where slush varnished stairways to heaven and coated cold corridors, vacant hallways of vanishing ice. With dainty, silken silence, she maneuvered, waves of lithe sinew and muscle entangled within the soft, poetic gestures of her lily motions. Concentrating so firmly on her fastidious actions, she didn’t look up the peak until the sound of voices echoed, coasting upon the harsher whims of petulant winds. Scents, familiar and foreign intermingled amongst the dimming skyline, ghosted over her slim nares, prompting further exploration; her movements took on a quicker climb, curiosity and inquiry brandished in the haunting chords of yells.

Upon her arrival, the scene was already at hand, a scarred femme, a large, canine creature, and one recognizable entity, Mauja. But lined from the sovereign was the feverish, arduous clamor of alarm, eyes narrowed in allegation and assertion towards the tawny beast. At her approach, Lena studied where his eyes stared, upon the other mare, wondering how she had acquired such injuries, and the wolf, sitting, rather cordially, politely, in a growing, perilous situation. In her gentle, easygoing manner, Lena inclined toward her leader, brushing against his shoulder and tugging at his mane, loose, dangling threads, with her teeth, a small, customary grin enlightened across her features. A comforting presence, a musical, harmonious whisper poised from candid lips. “Mauja, I don’t believe she intends harm.”