A Holy Journey (Open)

She spends a good amount of time travelling the Stonesong. The river’s glittering span extends deep into the Greatwood, branching out into smaller courses which wind away into the Wildwood and beyond. The banks offer a wide variety of material and food (not, of course anything that breathes), and Hazel takes advantage of this bounty. Today she has wandered further than she might’ve usually, made easier with a beetle mount to ride, and the weakling Fae finds herself alighting where a treasure-trove of gemstones lie buried underfoot; like they have, untouched, for the centuries her kin have called the forest home. There are traces of disturbance. Earth turned weakly by the hand - by hands that don’t belong.Her shrewd eye can see this, and thought of not-Fae thieving from her world is upsetting. She searches between baskets on the beetle’s cold, shelled back for her walking stick and then turns upon it to amble nearer to the water. “Wait please,” her soft, girlish voice directs Mordo. There is movement in the water and green eyes dart towards it, followed by the cool complexion of her face; fire lit hair, braided and knotted into dreadlocks, flashing across one shoulder. The hand still free lifts to draw the great cloak around her, nearer, deeper. A man, skin like clean snow, emerges from the tide. Hazel is shy, nervous and hesitates where she stands (distant enough, and small, so that she might not be noticed). Her eyes retire once, twice, but seem always drawn back to the enormous image of the intruder as he climbs his way ashore. What is he? She finds herself wondering, curious - and disturbed by that fact. The Fae does not know that there are two; that one stands near enough for concern.