The thought had not left her head as she wandered, and her aimless journey becomes more pointed, sweeping down along the side of the mountain. Well. A little herb collecting is not a bad plan, at any rate. Her cache at Silvertip is good, but could stand some diversity. There's the Herbalists' Cache way to the East (she thinks she could find it)... but that would be a much longer journey than she accounted for.
Perhaps she can bring Phocion with her there. Teach him some more. The idea reawakens an idea she has been staunchly ignoring. Carefully compartmentalizing that idea for another day, Poet noses through the gold-edged grasses, searching for something of better use.
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.)
He dismisses her apologies, bringing a faint smile to her expression as he mirrors her excuse. "I find," Poet says, tone slightly wistful, "summer is when my thoughts most wandered. Perhaps that is what compels us to travel physically too." She tilts her head, offering a thoughtful look, unsure if he will indulge her conversation. He has not tried to move past despite her allowance and so she assumes he does not mind company for the moment, at least. To that point, "my name is Poet," she tells him, taking a seat. Her tail comes to rest across the tips of her paws daintily, expression curious as she waits to see if he will continue talking to her.
The man is quiet company, which she does not mind. A stolen moment between two souls is sometimes all she needs; can be more valuable, in fact, than a conversation full of empty nothings. At any rate, he offers his name and she nods, repeating "Kjalarr," testing the foreign-sounding word in her mouth. It is rough and reminds her briefly of Sif, an association she quickly dismisses. For a moment she allows the silence to rest easily between them, eyes trailing the same grasshopper that's captured his attention. When she speaks again it is just to ask, "do you have a destination?" curious what his plans are in the way she often is, if he has any.
Eventually. An oddly fitting answer, she thinks, for a man who seems bound up in vagueities, either wittingly or not. It is also an answer that suits her, for she carries the same tendencies towards mystery (unwittingly or not). "When is eventually," she muses, asking him, "or perhaps where?" For her the answer is, right now, a white-worn priestess on a mountain, but the implications in that are too tightly bound for her to unravel. At least not yet.