She stands like a sentinel, legs apart. There's not a whole lot of wind to stir her hair or move her clothes. Need's very still, especially compared to what's out past her.

There are horses in the mist, a whole herd of half-glimpsed tossing heads, rounded rumps, flowing manes and tails. They're in a variety of colors and patterns, white blazes and dark patches, reds, even a nearly-metallic gold, but more are gray than any others, all moving at a soundless run.