Dying Embers

She was tired. Utterly. It was one of the now very rare moments where she could rest, and nightmares rampaged through her sleep, shaking her awake every few moments. Now she lay on the boulder in the plains, gazing up at the sky with weary eyes. The stars were hidden behind ever-present ash now.

She couldn’t really say that she was truly lucid at all. Her gaze was, if anything, trance-like—the look of one dead on her paws. Her father had tried to induce sleep for her with herbs that had helped her mother and Aramis at least sleep deeply, escape their fears and memories, but even those seemed to have no effect. She never felt rested even if she did sleep.

Her coat was smudged and rumpled, compared to the sleek, elegant creature the Autumn had looked upon. Ash was hell to get out of one’s fur, especially if you were white-furred.

For now, it seemed Valhalla would be safe from the volcano’s wrath, especially the plains. Ventures into Druid’s Moor had shown her trembles, occasionally. She didn’t want to risk it. So she asked those who made their dens in the moor to temporarily den in the plains until – if the time ever came at last – the tremors stopped and life found some semblance of normalcy.

Walk ---- "Speak" ---- "Hear" ---- Think