distant fields of emerald

Winter was here, and with it came the twilight of the phantom's time on earth. She knew she was going to die soon, and she feared it. Her children were far afield, and she wondered if she would get the chance to reconnect before she passed on. They loathed her for enforcing the old ways upon them, by withholding the title of shaman from Dom and Darya, by struggling against their father and his own ways. Had she given them the choice to live as they desired, perhaps they would still be here with her. At least Divo remained, ever faithful. The young shaman was out, searching the southern lands for herbs. The matriarch could never hope to tell her precious child that there was no use, that she was going to die no matter what. Arthritis had set in with full force, and there were many a day where she could not rise from the ground where she slept. Despite the furs on the floor, and the heat of a flame flickering nearby, she was trapped in her own skin.

This evening, she kept to the back of the cavern. A fierce blizzard was beginning to whip up, and there was no way she would dare get caught near the entrance. In all likelihood, the cold alone could send her to a slightly early grave. Instead, she settled down by the fire. Divo had been on top of maintaining it, and before they left they had restocked the pile of branches that served as fuel. All Lirika had to do was add more kindling as it died down, and she would be fine. A fierce wind whistled across the cavern's entrance, and snow whipped up around the edges. A pile would no doubt block out much of the mouth by the morning. Luckily, the north had bred strong wolves of her and her children, and none would struggle to clear it away. The pale woman tugged the edge of a fur with her teeth, arranging it to lay over her hind end. There, that was perfect. During a window in which her pain was at a minimum, she had dragged all of here furs closer to the fire. It was going to be a long night.