Burn slow, burning up the back wall
Long roads, where the city meets the sky
Most days, most days stay the sole same
Please stay, for this fear will not die

The meadow is the only place she's found that has not been touched by Beqanna's change. Green and everlasting, a expanse of grass mottled with deciduous trees. Volcan goes there on the crisp morning of summer's first breath, called to it as the moon is to the sun.

Her baroque figure is nearly the only one at this early hour, disturbing the dew that dresses each blade of grass. The lonesomeness is at once peaceful and heart wrenching: she disliked interacting with others of her species, yet she had been a nomad all her life, and not exactly by choice. There never seemed to be the right person, the right time, the right place. Volcan is too picky - or perhaps she does not know where she fits in.

Her dark green eyes are cast skyward, studying the cloud-covered sky intently. Then, without any indication, Volcan tears the grass from the earth and sends it skywards, the long blades whirling in simple spirals, moving and dancing as if to music. Then, she bunches the grass into three strands, and begins braiding it into a flower crown. She looks and finds simple meadow flowers, and sends them to fit neatly into the thing.

Of course, Volcan thinks she is alone as she performs the feat.

Of course, when someone approaches her, shit. Hits. The. Fan.