Naira was alone on the mountain. The cold mountain wind was invigorating, raising the hair on her arms, ruffling her pale hair, it bit her cheeks and rouged them pink. She flexed her arms, moving her hands from one rock to the next. She straddled across a steep cliff face, her goats dappled the side of the mountain, some far above her, some below, some already crossed. They were following the sun's arch through the sky and the season, looking for fresh green weeds to graze upon.

When her feet found purchases on a ledge of flat solid rock, one of the goats awaited her. It was as tall as she, she ran her fingers through the fur of it's neck, then stepped astride it and mounted. Riding the oversize goat, they followed the ledge, which eventually rolled out into a steep but wooded portion of the mountain

She was wrapped in furs and leathers, crowned with thick golden hair, straw-like, it fell about her shoulders, wound and braided, dappled with beads and bones she had found interesting enough to decorate herself with. Her face was streaked with dark mud under her cheeks, it helped deflect the glare of the sun, the mud framed large dark eyes that scanned the trees. She took the reed pipe tied around her neck and placed it in her lips, and her other hand hovered over her spear, ready. The wood was not the safest place for her heard, full of fresh plants, but also predators. They would only have to endure it for a few miles, then the terrain would become rocky again, and the rugged hooves of the goats would find their advantage again.