Her pilfered pelts tan in the flatlands, lonely bones litter abandoned dens, owls nest not far from the temple she cannot think on too long-- but Miasma makes her way to their northernmost claim. Trees part for the moat, high branches reaching desperately for each other over the water and perilous fall. There is no bridge here, nor in view either direction, and for a moment, the orphan girl thinks that here, hidden from the eyes in the sky or the back of her father's brain, she is alone. When her turquoise eyes close, the woods seem to grow louder, shrieking and screeching and--


  Birds startle into flight, and the insects dutifully eating away at the dead pause in the second after she stops, shaking, but finally, blessedly, the trees and her head are all silent. Naturally, someone has to ruin it.