Salvonne (delighted)

she was traveling, tracking an ambulant ash, when her trail was derailed by a swift silver flash.

she sank her staff into the snow, seeking with her seven sights. the white-barked birches began to glow; the forest filled with lunar light. she waited, watchful, breathing slow.

then sudden as a zephyr’sprint goes spearing through a [. . .]

Salvonne (slighted)

Salvonne sat spinning gold to straw. she paused every few bushels, touched a bruise along her jaw. her mutter sounded like a badger bristling. sudden she stopped, tilted her head–someone near was whistling.

he came fumbling in a burst of clumsy color from the bushes, tumbled to a crumpled heap nearby her feet. uncurling her [. . .]

Salvonne (sighted)

“we always keep a canary there in our apothecary—you never know when an apprentice’s pestle will press with a bit too much zeal. and there, behind the catsbeds and crowspens, that’s where we keep miss Catherine’s wheel—eh, for spinning, of course, that is.”

“indeed.” Whitlen sits high on his steed. he is barreled and burled [. . .]