Ful of Wist

Ancient stirring slumber shames. Unashamed except for the eyes that meet, unwitting. Child. Stupidity. She lies in the way, and she lies, plain and true, of a sort. The two wish to meet, must meet, become as one another, but there are plain obstacles, large enough for the obvious to become obscure.
And the grind begins again. The lights come back on when you're in the room.

Silence

Haven found, they give chase but cannot smell her. She rests, but does not, cannot, sleep. The crafting, stitching, weaving, is done with, she can relax her fingers in the pockets of her jeans. She concentrates on drying her clothing out, and it is done, the work of a few seconds, and she knows something like peace.
Home is a long way yet.

Chase

The finality of it hits her, she stumbles, but regains balance. They come in waves, body upon body grabbing for her to hug her close, but she evades, she ducks and weaves. The rain makes her slip, the tiled floor underneath her feet treacherous, and still she crafts. The figures in between her fingers barely formed before they flit to being something else, her mind is aflame.
The rain pours on. She runs.

Rain Girl

She invents new ways to combat elements, tiny sculptures bracing and splitting into being between her nimble fingers, but blurred out by the rain faster than she can restore them. She fights for her life, endlessly, without repose, without rest, and without end. The wonders she creates never cease, but neither do the creatures, and even now they come for her, shambling, lumbering, but determined.
The rain pours on, the clouds burst, and still, she fights for her life.