Kaelea

"Is she awake?" a voice, faint unknown So soft and alone, like the doves soft tone. Awake. Eyes lift to the day in a place far from home "Yes" another comments, not but a drone. The shadows are a blur, indistinct, unpure, Broken by shapes as unsure as her. A hand pressed to temple, pressure pounding, To subdue the headache unchecked and clinging. The figures reform to become shape of a child, A little girl untouched by maturities bile. Purity in all it's essence with refined gold for hair Ratty clothing of the pauper, she is her father's heir. "Where am I?" she murmers through pain touched words Slitted eyes cast about for securi