"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Yanhua had been as good as his word as they had stepped through the portal together. The goaticorn remained pleasant company as they journeyed together to the tall redwoods. The trek is somewhat arduous as she struggles to acclimate to the rising elevation. She hadn’t thought herself out of shape but Taiga tells her otherwise, muscles sore and tired by the time they make it into the fog covered woodland. Taking in the sporadic silvergreens amongst the towering trunks and the large mushrooms that umbrella over them, she has to admit that it was well worth the trip.
There would never be another Amazonian rainforest but maybe she can make this work.
It had been a little time since she had arrived, enough that she had explored much of what Taiga had to offer from its granite beaches to its small meadows. She liked the lay of the land but before she could truly call Taiga a perfect fit, she needed to meet its people. So she seeks them out today, wandering amongst fallen trunks and wide spread ferns that brush against the soft curve of her barrel. She is careful to lower her head where the foliage is thickest, avoiding the possibility by being snared with her new horn. It had been strange, she had fallen asleep one night and simply woke with the smoky quartz horn spiraling out of her forehead. Vines and jungle flowers she had once seen in her old jungle had somehow permanently entangled in the silky strands of her dark hair, refusing to dislodge. There wasn’t much she could do about it so she accepted it was the same ease as she had when she had woken up to a world broken and reformed.
Eventually she breaks from the misty cluster of trees into one of the small open meadows and here she looks around to see who might be around, grazing as she goes.
They may call me a sinner, but I am at peace with myself;
Bardot