(Untitled)

[white_flowers]

The evening is cool for late spring, as she walks out again by the lake. The (white cloak) gleaming green kirtle wraps around her as the breeze catches it, but she does not shiver with the chill

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[howling_laugh]

The green does not hide her. Oh no.

It only makes her stand out more, screams this is wrong to senses properly attuned to such things.

There is a coyote in the underbrush. Her hackles rise.

[white_flowers]

She takes a breath, savoring the moment and the peaceful evening, or so it would seem, and half-turns as though to walk back toward the bar.

Starlight reflects from the glass globe on its chain at her throat, turning it silver for a moment.

[howling_laugh]

That does not belong to her. She snarls, and the sound travels on the breeze.

Coyote rises up and steps forward. "There is something we need to speak about, Blodwen Rowlands. It can be a very long discussion, or a short one. But at the end, you will give me that bauble you wear."

[white_flowers]

At the sound of the snarl she whirls to face Coyote. The kirtle writhes around her, slowly bleaching from green toward white.

Her soft laugh is clear and mocking.

"Oh, I do not think so, dear. Mine it is, and mine to keep, and I will not have you stealing anything from me."