The Sound of the Tree through the Forms of the Veil
The maiden yearns to encounter the creatures of the forest; her calls bring no response. An artist whose desires may be brought forth with her mind and hands, she forms a fawn of clay, then wood. The yellow sun shines upon her creations. She sets about to mold a fawn of gold.
What is it that she who had awakened rested now lacks and seeks? This is not the time to ask. The blocks of gold are stacked, the wood for the fire gathered, the vessel of water on hand. In her good hands, the fawn of gold may come to be.