And my muse applied it to several stories:
Near sunset, by the stables, an orange marmalade kitten prowled for food, a kitchen-maid mother nursed her baby, and next to one box, where a blood bay horse had just been stabled, Carrigiana spoke with Sir Corwin. Who looked more eager for sleep and food than this, but listened courteously.
He could find anything. A tree with orange leaves and snow-white oranges. A blue kitten. A mother with her baby, and both of them with leopard spots. A box full of food, though he supposed that was the least likely.
He could not stop for food along the way. And the sky would be turning orange with evening before he got to safety, even if it did not reach full night. He could neither sleep nor walk at night on this path, or he would wash up like one of those bales or boxes from shipwreck.
Which was, he told himself, no reason to wail like a baby for its mother. Why, a kitten could walk along this path.
Halley walked along the path.
Two muscled-bound fae, half her height, but much broader, argued over a box -- of food, from their arguments. A black kitten, with a single white spot on its chest, chased blood red and flame orange leaves. A tiny little fae, no higher than Halley's knee, a mother, dandled her even tinier baby on her knee.
She felt more out of place with every step.