[ From one open field into another, this one less monochrome in color. Her dream trades a golden sea of wheat for constant pops of color like a spring wonderland. Vibrant and consistent, a patch of land that would have made her skin crawl not too long ago. It feels... happy. Alive. Well. The scent of rain gives the impression of growth and life, as if something has sprung, bright and chipper, from the Earth. She's out of touch here in her brown pilgrimage robes that are still too big for her, the fabric matted with dirt and grime. Torn at the edges, her robes are clearly old and worn and she would resemble a corpse that had dragged itself out of the dirt if not for her immaculately clean visage and long, braided, red hair. The clothing is what she remembers it being during her tenure as master of that house, but she notes her limbs are all accounted for. Morgana is less shocked and more amused at this observation.

Her face is hidden away by way of a hood that Morgana pulls over her head as quickly as she begins to realize she has to explore her way out of this predicament. It's a ragged hood with holes in it, but it accomplishes the job well— her face is covered in a dark shade, hiding her expression but not her mouth. The girl, soon enough, tries to find a way out of this bright, cheerful, lively place. The mouth of the forest seems like a good way to begin. It wouldn't be the first time she's traveled by foot for a long time, she thinks, and prepares herself for a journey. Red Riding Hood is, for all purposes, thriving in this prompt.

She is still a girl and as much as the sight of living flowers makes her stomach churn with memories too sickly sweet to recall with a smile, it is a beautiful sight. After centuries observing such a sight, she could reach out and feel the petals of the wildflowers, take in the scent and feel the heat from the sun. Curious, curious. If this were Alice in Wonderland, though, she'd be a very cautious Alice. Morgana only gives into her curiosity when she feels like the weight of it might collapse her shoulders. She really wants to know what flowers feel like again. If prompted, in the presence of another person, she might deny herself it, and insist she has no need for Earthly pleasures anymore, but...

Her fingertips graze the petals of the purple flower, first. It's a ghostly touch, and she barely feels the texture of it. Morgana pulls her hand away as soon as it touches it, though, her lips parting softly. The bush shifts just a touch, as if something had been moved. Morgana finds this even more curious, and reaches out to explore the flower patch, gripping a pink petal between her thumb and index finger. Strange, she thinks, that's not a texture she recalls flowers ever having. She's touched quite a lot of herbs and flowers and things that you pull from trees and the ground in her time, and this seems more in line with... Oh. She snaps her hand back, fingers curling into a fist.

...Only for the bush to shift, again, standing on all four of it's legs.

Well, if Red Riding Hood is here, isn't there a wolf to account for?

Morgana stumbles back, her golden gaze meeting with the petalwolf's. She stumbles; falls, how clumsy of her, into the grass, palms to the ground. Her chest heaves with panic.

And finally, her first words in this place are spoken. Her voice is honey sweet, delicate and refined. For someone so mysterious, her voice is so invitingly soft. ]

...No... Stay back... Don't look at me with such hungry eyes, you... Stop! Stay! Heel!

[ Maybe she should pay more attention to what she touches. ]

[ The path through the forest is not one that is new to her. It feels very familiar, and one she's seen through recollections of others' memories in her own home. Why, there's even a witch in the forest. Imagine that— Morgana would giggle at the thought if she spoke it. As it is, she says nothing, and journeys on foot quietly. Like a ghost, she gives no indication of her arrival or departure in a space. She comes and goes with intent and moves quietly. Were it not for the leaves and twigs that crunch underfoot, you'd probably be in for a fright.

Halloween doesn't come early, at least. Morgana thinks of this place as the Hall of Mirrors, she decides, her gaze flicking from one mirror to the next. They hang like apples and she thinks it would be a shame to see a mirror fall and shatter. As the thought strikes her, she wonders if that is, perhaps, the intention. Hm.

Her hooded figure blocks a ray of sunshine that peeks through the branches as she approaches, and there's no denying that a small person has joined you on your curious little endeavor. She wonders if perhaps it would be best to ignore you, and uh. Almost does that. Morgana stares from under her hood, mouth closed, and begins walking as if to pass you by. You might as well be the ghost, here. Still, ... it's impossible not to look. She's spent so long observing. It's second nature. A particular mirror catches her eye: An ornately framed thing. There's carvings of roses along it, jewels that glisten like real rubies in the eyes of stylized mice. Strange. Curious. Familiar in a way, for what it is. She reaches out and traces the carving of a rose's petal with a finger so pale it gives the waxy impression of a corpse's. Along it is rows of lacerations that are old and healed, for the most part.

She hums, sing song and light. ]

The concept is not lost on me, my dear... A peek into another's life. If you thrive on gossip, such a thing is like a crumb of bread after a long break from meals, no? [ Giggle, giggle. Her voice is ethereal and ... truthfully, she could probably talk about anything and make it sound interesting with such a voice. ] Ah, but I'm curious. Would you want your own mirror displayed in this place? I am curious; do you believe this was a commemoration agreed upon by the deceased and those who carried it out? The dead are not here to speak for themselves, you know. One can't help but wonder what led them to create this— what shall we refer to it for now? The Hall of Mirrors? Hehe...

As I have requested, I would like directions to the nearest town, not details on someone's marriage.

[ A hooded figure bickers idly with a fae; her voice is snake venom and sugar, laced with quiet anger. It is still a quiet sort of anger, so perhaps her agitation is minimal. Who knows! Even so, there are no directions given, just a vague story about how someone is cheating on their wife or... something. Morgana tunes it out and mumbles something to herself. It's hard to hear, but her enunciation is so good that it's hard to truly misinterpret. That's what you get when you spend most of your life preaching. ]

Buzzing this way and that way— eugh... It reminds me of someone else I knew... Giselle, you fool.

[ Morgana's gaze falls to the ground. ] Has she kept him waiting? Wondering about it seems so pointless.

[ ...and at that moment, a particularly feisty fae pulls her hood down. she squawks about wanting to see Morgana's face, and the girl lets out an uncharacteristic squeak herself. It's like a cat yowling in surprise if you step too close to it, but all this particular noise does is attract more attention. Her golden eyes squeeze shut and then her hands come back up to attempt to pull the hood back up. ]

The lack of tact you have would suit a gorilla best, my dear. I'll— I'll keep walking, then. If none of you have directions, then... Goodbye to you!

[ hello! please feel free to hit me up with your own starter if you would prefer. for prompts b&c, i'm okay with assumed CR in the form of introductions having already happened. if you'd like to plot something out, i'm contactable through PM on this account and on plurk @ weirdautumn. 😊 ]