Blanca shivered and jogged her hands up and down her arms. Her feet picked a trail, missing decaying logs. She was always dumbfounded at how silently she could move through this forest, instinctively evading fallen twigs and loose rocks. Something trickled into her mind. Where are you? Why do you decline to come to me? That voice was a vicious sizzle of wrath. She halted, horrified, and pressed both hands to her head. It was her nightmare, the same voice calling to her, echoing in her mind. The nightmares were coming more often, tormenting her sleep, frightening her waking hours, wriggling into her consciousness at all hours. Sometimes she thought she might go mad.
Blanca approached a rippling stream. Stepping stones, vibrant splashes of color, flat and welcoming, paved her way across the crystal-clear water. The stream was icy cold when she bent to idly trail her fingers in it. The feeling was soothing.
