Intent above all upon survival - any

[Camelia]

I will run the streets and hostile lands, I will touch the rain with all I have
I will breathe the air, to scream it loud. My feet will never touch the ground.

Camelia tries. She came back to her homeland right before the chilled fall and frozen winter hit Beqanna. She had felt it in her bones, the sore ache the cold left in her joints, and she knew it would be a long winter. When the snow and ice formed over the land, Camelia felt it in her entire body. It pricked and jolted and burned at her body inside and out. Although she remained determined (as any wise, aging woman would be), her body did not agree with her mind.

It is the true reason why the dunskin finds her more or less inactive during the winter months. Her knees ache after walking a short distance and her lungs feel iced over when she inhales too deeply. Nonetheless, she grits her teeth during the finer days and patrols the borders. It’s an old habit of hers, a ghosting memory of the times she would do it to think or decide something during her time on the throne.

She scents a trail of rabbit crossing over the border. The long feet of the creature are imprinted on the fresh snow, leading deeper inside. Camelia runs with her bored mind and starts after the trail, allowing her neck to drop so she can sniff along the scent. With her eyes downcast, the once-queen doesn’t notice the horse in front of her. All she notes is the way the scent transforms into a horse and her nostrils quiver in confusion.

Then, there is a female voice. Camelia’s head rises abruptly and she knocks her head against a low-hanging branch. Snow topples to the ground, barely missing her slender form. The dunskin mare shuffles sideways before moving closer, her eyes drawn toward the two other mares. The one who spoke – a bay with a white bark blaze – smells strongly of the Gates yet Camelia has never seen her before. Stepping closer, the aging mare falls into her bright sunny smile. “You two are the first souls I’ve seen all winter.” A slow giggle rolls off her lips, sounding entirely well-worn and generously used.

Her eyes dance toward the mousy gray mare. “I’m Camelia,” she offers. She heard Cerva’s question and feels as though there is nothing more to say; at least until they get an answer.

Camelia