Overture Downs they placed fire-licked pages at the foot of the crown

The woman turns her down and she accepts the answer without response. When she introduces herself, Poet slowly rises to her haunches, her movements graceful even when affected. "Poet," she offers in return, idly tracking Mary's movement as she sits.

A nice day. The weather is fair, crisp and chilled, the sky bright and winter-tinted overhead. The lingering chill in her bones has abated for now, perhaps aided by the drug. "As fair as day may be," she agrees, then laughs softly, a tinkling sound. "Why must we speak of weather? Tell me of you and yours," she says pleasantly, tongue loosened from formality. There's no need of that here, where she holds no position of note, is not bound by social contract to any particular conduct. She has been sheltered from this world; now she wishes to engage in it fully. Thank poppy for that.