Kintla Flatlands The stars laughing at our mortal foils

She called the seasons strange and Echelon may have laughed if she possessed a normal sense of humor.  To her, all of this was strange.  She hailed from a world where cold was always prevalent, where seasons changed but did not seemed to do so.  This concept of seasons was new to her, far too new.  The way the earth had warmed and hell, the way even the sun had warmed was a newer experience.  But one she had almost come full circle on truthfully; she didn't know how long she had been around.  The coming of winter had been pleasant to her, while others had scurried around looking for ways to keep the nightmarish rumors at bay of how bad could it be.

"I would expect frost before the others," she murmured, though hardly intentional.

"The mornings should grow damp and stay damp for a while."  This time, she had lost the murmur.  But the words came out clipped and stilted like always.  While she was more verbose than Tonravik, Echelon did not consider herself a fan of using words.  Using a common tongue more prevalent here than it was to her homeland, to the north.  But even fewer understood such talk here and for a change, she did not feel like playing tricks.

She lingered for a moment more, then opted to venture out further into the grassland.