Ahrk fin Kel lost prodah, do ved viing ko fin krah,
Tol fod zeymah win kein meyz fundein!

The light of dawn slowly spreads up from the horizon, pushing back against the darkness clinging desperately to its existence. Creatures of the night scurry to their burrows and other hiding places, fleeing the sun the way one might flee the fire from a dragon's mouth. The stars fade in the sky, overpowered by the sun, and the moon drifts out of view. For the briefest of moments, the land below is enveloped in a relative silence. Many birds have yet to awake and throw their cacophony of voices into the morning air. Many are asleep, or settling into their beds.

Many, except the dragonborn.

She is a strange mare, with a base of black heavily accented with red and white in the form of thick striping. Her hooves, though otherwise plain black and usual, have a blood red sheen to them. The tips of her tangled and unruly mane and tail are stained blood red as well. Her most prominent features are the vivid, sickly green of her eyes and the large, red tipped antlers upon her head. She is small, though well muscled and sturdy; built to adapt to a diverse set of situations. It does little to lend her the pretty, lean and slender look so often desired by the opposite sex. Her curves are firm, rather than femininely plush. The dragonborn's movement is quite fluid and her steps are deceptively light, though one might hesitate to call her graceful. She could be, if she wanted to but it is decidedly not as natural. Graceful isn't her baseline.

Even still, her presence has been known to ignite desire in the loins of many.

She steps lightly, quietly - expanding her map of Helovia inch by inch and mile by mile as she heads west from the Thistle Meadow. Open fields, filled with green grasses and scattered with flowers, transition to forest before the sun had the chance to really rise into the sky. The darker blue of the night sky has lightened enough that the birds are waking up, their voices as light and cheerful as they always seemed to be. The dragonborn snorts, resisting the urge to roll her eyes as she slips expertly between the trees. Every step is carefully placed out of habit, avoiding dry foliage and twigs. Soon, though, the forest thickens - the trees grow more closely together, making her quieter passage far more difficult. "Draaf." she murmurs hoarsely under her breath, green eyes narrowing in annoyance.

Determined, she presses forward and within moments she slides out of the tree line into a clearing. Willow trees mingling with trees and thick vegetation provide a rather secluded little nook. At the heart of it is crisp and clear pond. While the sight causes the dragonborn to pause, her expression remains indifferent to the romantic setting. In fact, she almost looks bored. Just as she raises her right front hoof in preparation of walking through and, subsequently, out of the clearing - a sound causes her to pause. Her ears swivel and her eyes carefully scan her surroundings, seeking the reason and source of the noise. Slowly and quietly she lowers her hoof back down. Otherwise she is silent and she is still. The pendant attached to the base of her right antler a constant (almost comforting)  reminder of the dragon god of time from her home. Bormah, they call him in dragon tongue. 'Genun hinmaar.' she thinks to herself, green gaze burning into the thick foliage circling her.

DOVAHKIIN