Oh butterflies, you steal my sleep each night.

She dreamed that she was flying. Over frosted treetops and upward, higher, enough to find herself lost among cotton candy clouds illuminated by warm shades of gold and soft pink. Aisling didn't stop to consider the why or the how - she immersed herself in the opportunity until something did not feel right.

She began to plummet.

Down, down, down -

When the young she-wolf woke, she did so with a start. Aisling gasped, aware of the uncomfortable flip of her belly as she pulled herself up onto tufted elbows. Silver eyes darted around the icy hollow she'd roused within, confused, eager to find something that might be familiar enough to settle the anxiety that so suddenly grew within her heart.

Cold had seeped into her bones and she trembled as she gathered to her paws and drew in a shaky breath, tail tucked close to her rear as she tiptoed shakily toward dimming daylight that beamed through the threshold of the cave she'd found herself within. “Wh-” her breath appeared in a plume of ashen smoke that dissipated before her nose, “where am I?”

How did I get here?

Out onto the ledge before her cave, she squinted against the light of a setting sun and took in the view stretched out before her.


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tiny post hope that's ok for now utshgnv

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[narrow width=800]the rains of autumn had shaken the white leftover summer lilies; this dark hour felt as if she had risen from one dream only to kneel into another. from her new-found @Valtyr ( hers, hers ) the sotaherra strode, surer than she'd ever been when she'd first re-emerged from those stygian shores that – if asriel had already not succumbed to sleep – he followed close some ways behind. for so long, an absent terror had been a part of her; it had been what'd mastered her before her deep fever, rather than she it, as it should have been in the first place.

the martins fret in their eaves, with the preparation of migration; and in its quiet she hears the voice of daughter, daughter and is ensorcelled by what she cannot name all over again. she has since long spent her tears; but her throat is thick, her voice choked again, again, as the fairylight finally nears "could it truly be my– ?" — rosedarling? breaths small, shivery, "rakkain unelmani?" — my dearest dream?[/narrow]

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