Hoshor Plains made simple intricate paper bloom bleed red

She does not mind the bison nor the man approaching 'til they very nearly brush, at which her focus shifts abruptly, freezing mid-step to prevent their destined collision. Perhaps she ought to pay closer attention, the thought flickers across her mind for a moment before vanishing in the wake of the stranger. Poet does not know him (predictably) though she finds his stonewrought features intruiging, eyes lingering on the three scars cutting across his face longer than is, perhaps, strictly polite.

"Apologies," the ex-prietess offers, forcing her attention elsewhere, "I have been in my own head a bit as of late." A slightly self-deprecating smile turns her delicate mouth upward as she steps back once-twice, giving him space to continue his way should he wish (though naturally she is unopposed to conversation, as well.)