It takes Zafire a little longer than it should have to reach the village, not least because she wants to be very certain she's looked everywhere for a clue as to her surroundings. Unfortunately, the presence of some monstrous entities previously unknown to her is a deterrent for sticking around, as is the horrendous cold. She has to stay on the move to keep from freezing, and to distract herself from the gnawing pain in both her hand (the unnatural glowing shard) and the pit of her stomach (pure non-magical anxiety).
She has retrieved her shawl, which she wears around her hair and face, but doesn't do a lot to keep her unobtrusive, since nearly everything she's wearing is white, silk, and threaded with gold. Her boots are blessedly holding up throughout the trek to civilization, but the hem of her dress is sodden with snow, half-melted. The sight of the village is simultaneously a relief and an object of fear. She has no idea how the people who live there will respond to her presence, but she also doesn't know what else to do, so she makes her way into the territory of strangers, footsteps increasingly unsteady the further she gets into what may or may not actually be some approximation of safety.
Her scarf slips, slides from her hair, threatens to come loose and fall entirely, but Zafire is too distracted with trying to remain upright. She is not going to pass out. She is not the fragile house-bound creature of pillows and palaces that she was only a year or two ago. She is not going to pass out —
But her knees buckle anyway, and she reaches for a nearby frost-covered tree to balance her palm against, looking both pale and tight-lipped in her self-directed agitation.
no subject
She has retrieved her shawl, which she wears around her hair and face, but doesn't do a lot to keep her unobtrusive, since nearly everything she's wearing is white, silk, and threaded with gold. Her boots are blessedly holding up throughout the trek to civilization, but the hem of her dress is sodden with snow, half-melted. The sight of the village is simultaneously a relief and an object of fear. She has no idea how the people who live there will respond to her presence, but she also doesn't know what else to do, so she makes her way into the territory of strangers, footsteps increasingly unsteady the further she gets into what may or may not actually be some approximation of safety.
Her scarf slips, slides from her hair, threatens to come loose and fall entirely, but Zafire is too distracted with trying to remain upright. She is not going to pass out. She is not the fragile house-bound creature of pillows and palaces that she was only a year or two ago. She is not going to pass out —
But her knees buckle anyway, and she reaches for a nearby frost-covered tree to balance her palm against, looking both pale and tight-lipped in her self-directed agitation.