Her knife-sharp little face creased in joy as her glassy bee-like wings sped her in circles, flaring her bright heliotropic hair out in a trail behind her. Pollyhaugh danced and twirled between the flakes of skirling snow, her tiny nakedness seemingly unbothered by the biting cold that so afflicted her companions riding on their long-haired goats below.
“By the Beam, she’s having the time of her felling life up there…” Grumbled Tors, as a trill of laughing song filtered down to him.
“You’re only jealous,” laughed Soille “just be grateful you’re not walking like him!” And jutted her chin in the direction of the juggernaut sized figure, ploughing through the deep snow at the head of the little caravan.