Arisen from my dreaming to such an alarm, I could hear not but my heart; blood running my veins. My guide, she stood still with locking gaze. If one could give silence after such an intimate use of blade then I should expect no word from her barren lips, but the complacency of these waking dreams – I still embrace to the warmth of such a cold chance – She cut her gaze towards East. I presume we are behind and without time. Yet she remains stoically leveled. For reason I could not discern, I sense this disconcerting calm would soon be stirred. She moves and simultaneously I alert to the falling of limbs cracking through the unsettled quiet of the wood. Her hand placed upon the trunk of a massive Wilder tree, not even a flinch as the splinters flew about the air whiffing her hair. Looking upon her demeanor I seem to replicate it. It’s as if every step she takes, every hand placed, works to awaken some great image within me. I feel urged to welcome it.
There is a reason we tread with a hop in our step.