Qeya River there will come a ruler whose brow is laid in thorn

the woman offered her thanks, and her muzzle dipped in thanks and return. she ought to have more, surely, and perhaps she'll seek this woman out again in the future. or perhaps, as so often does it seem to happen, their paths will cross once and nevermore. still.  "cassiopeia." she offers in turn, and she shifts her weight across her forepaws. the restlessness that pulls her ever west, coupled with a desire for action rather than conversation, have her dip he muzzle again, this time in farewell. "perhaps we'll meet again." she'd like that. she wheels and resumes her journey, her desire for action met and sated.