Vennatia Breadlow dipped her hands into the babbling stream. The cold water was bracing and made the her fingers ache. With a cupped hand, she dabbed her cheeks. It was a hot summer day. Despite the shade of the forest, the heat seemed to permeate her entire being, making her cranky and sluggish.
It had been a long day, yet she knew that her trials and tribulations were only beginning. When the local priest accused her of practicing the black arts, she just managed to elude the authorities, but she was on the run. She thought about seeking refuge with another of her kind, but she realized such recourse would only implicate others. Circumstances forced her to hide during most of the daylight hours in barns, under hedges, wherever she could conceal herself.
Resting for a moment on her back, she looked up at the tree branches. The venation of the leaves reminded her of the watershed in the valley below. She found it interesting that certain patterns in nature were repeated from a tiny scale all the way up to the landscape. I’ve seen the riverbeds from on high! She mused. Remembering the rush of the wind through her hair made her smile. Why could she not fly through the air now? Had her master abandoned her in her hour of need?