Wapun Meadow Sing, Bluebird, sing

Travelling had become the norm for Simatra. Day in, day out, she would continue on north. Always north. The path she took was generic, a metaphorical trail so to say, but the maiden took it seriously enough. It was only after picking her way down the mountainside did she fully notice the true beauty of the scenery, the meadow in fact was what truly coaxed her from her post.

Many of the late gems she knew by name, others she simply recognised by colour or scent, an odd thing for a warrior of a tribe to have learned. Strange it may be for any passer by to witness the woman's excitement, yet for Simatra it was a chance to indulge herself. Though frost had claimed the vast proportion of the flowers, the richly coated wolf would flit from stem to stem, foamy eyes alight with passion as names where whispered and new growths clocked. She knew not of what a wolf of her homeland might think, only that for a Dezba it was not a thing of norm.