Her form is of a silvern maid, forced to serve for her master. As she roams the steps of Gods, she knows she is not alone, but she is more alone than anyone else.

"May the tale of the Ghost Deer live on," she speaks, her voice brittle and caked with age. Out she stutters a few more verbs, but none make any sense to her or the likes around her...she stumbles.

Perfectly-crafted nose in the mud of the silt-filled pond, her mouth opens to let seep in the water hidden in the brown cloak. She wonders if one day she will seep out like that again, like water from the mud, like a maiden from the rubble...

Her antlers are hollow and weak as she moans, her voice a match in strength. Fur petted down against her by every morning's dew, the last days of happiness but an illusion to her. She remembers her sisters, her brothers, her dad...all symbolic yet all true. She knows there lies hope in Fractalline, but how much? How long until her fur seeps into the eternal stay of ghostlihood? How long until she gives up hope like the rest of us? Thoughts lie dim as her blood, seeping through in an eternal crimson red, and yet...the red lies...

She could speak forever as she spies the forest full and filled...

But she knows there is no time, no more...

Her face lies in the mud, buried with time, with hopelessness...