deep roots are not reached by the frost - any

[Merida]

Merida

from the ashes, a fire shall be awoken

There was no real reason for her to keep her head held high, but she did anyway.

The strong mare is almost statuesque against the grey shroud of the morning’s mist, her thoughtful gaze set firmly on the horizon before her. It seems as if she was waiting for something as her soft breath leaves her lips in a foggy cloud. All is as still as a picture – from the trees’ branches to the tightness of her clenched jaw. The only hint of movement is the gentle brush of grass blades against stoic legs and the twirl of tendrils against ebony skin, flecked with spots of red. 

Merida keeps herself alert, muscles drawn tight beneath her skin. She’s on edge – overcautious, even. Her stare, though soft, is wary and examining. A single ear tips backwards slightly, listening to the quiet morning as the coolness of autumn begins to cling to her skin. There is a pinprick of light that squeezes itself through the trees in the distance, causing her thoughts to redirect themselves, muscles to snapping into place. She snorts softly and idly flicks her tail against her ankles as she watches the sun slowly begin to rise into dawn. 

It has been quiet in Loess. The only sounds were that of the world around her; the soft willows moving in the wind, the gentle call of the larks as they begin to awaken. There is uneasiness etched into the dark lines of her face, her tangled locks of red brushing against her face like flames from a fire. 

She stands at the top of a small sloping hill, her willow tree not too far off in the distance behind her. Her intense red eyes watch silently as the sun begins to bathe the scenery in pinks and oranges, illuminating the darkened crevices of the rocky terrain and sharp, sloped hills. She watches as her world awakens from slumber, the sunrise brilliant and blazing against the cloudless sky of autumn. 

It is another day, and she knows it will be a lonely one.