for every tyrant, a tear for the vulnerable
in every lost soul, the bones of a miracle
Another year is rolling by, another summer gone. Its funny how she counts the years from summer to summer, recalling with a fond sadness the slowly growing distance between now and her first hot season in Beqanna.
Its funny, but the plague has given her a kind of freedom she did not realize when they had first learned of it. She is not one of those who hides, and she has grown used to occasions of weakness an the bloody noses that accompany them. She is thin, but somehow manages to look more svelte than emaciated this time of year, when she's had a long summer of good food (and those sweet plums she smells of that would have made her fat were she well). This is probably something she should thank the fairies for, though she is ill she is still exceptionally lovely thanks to their gifts. It is nice to continue to go wherever she pleases, instead of trying to avoid infection.
A stream carries her down out of the mountains, and she re-materializes in the fetlock deep water with a shiver. Traveling this way gets rather chilly. She climbs out of the rocky stream-bed and rolls herself a little dryer in the yellowing grass and bracken and the lies still to listen to the sounds the meadow carries her way.
Kensa is nearly dozing when the breeze carries the scent of Silver Cove her way. Surprised she sits up and scans the meadow with bright topaz eyes. She doesn't see Sviko until she gets to her feet, and it takes a moment for the sabino to recall the prince's name. Her regret for this lapse of memory motivates her cross through the long green-yellow grass, her gold trimmed ears pricked. "Hello, Sviko." He likely knows who she is, but she is not so vain to assume. "I'm sorry, we have never actually spoken. I'm Kensa."
@[Sviko]
