Emberwood I got years of livin' by and how I choose

The night was quieter as they began the climb, out of the busy trees and onto the sparser slopes. The air was a little cooler and cleaner here, and Eleuthera's scent was becoming more familiar to the rambler. Sometimes it still plucked at his heartstrings — and he had a feeling he would have to get used to that, if he was going to see her again — but for the most part, it was simply a comfort to have someone else's scent mingling with his own once more.

You're dangerous, he thought to himself. I could get used to this real quick, if I'm not careful.

But unlike Nine Lives, he had always been a careful man.

"The willows," he repeated, imagining an icy morass shaded by towering peppercorns and weeping willows. If it was where she lived, he would make a point to visit. Even when she went on to describe it as dazzlingly beautiful, he could not bump it up any further on his list — he would have to see her again. It was the only item on his agenda, really. "I'll come call on you," he assured once more, and then felt a bit sheepish at the blatant interest he was showing. He'd do well to play his cards a little closer to the vest; although she'd been quick to accept him as an amusing friend, he didn't think she'd want him as a suitor.

And besides — he was more of an opportunist and had never been one to go courting. Then again, traveling with Nine had limited him, somewhat.

The question was soon turned back toward him — something that should've been expected, but nevertheless, he found himself completely unprepared. The simple answer was no, but Kin found himself compelled to impress the young woman, and so he went with a more oblique but pleasant answer.

"I seen too much to pick just one," he replied, and a truer answer would be he'd not spent enough time in any one place, so nothing had grown on him. But, "Maybe. . . past here a ways — far past here, mind — there's a desert made of red earth. You can stand at one end and see clear 'crost it, but it's riddled through-and-through with canyons and waterways, and the walls — red walls, every shade of the sun you kin imagine — they tower so high above you, sometimes you cain't even see the sky.

"It's a dry place, but sometimes the air gets heavy and the sky goes dark, and the rain falls down so thick and fast you cain't see the whiskers at the end of your nose. And you'll hear a rush — a mighty rumble — and suddenly you'll be standin' right in a rushin' river. I'd call it whitewater, but like everythin' down there, it's some shade of red."

This was the most he'd spoken aloud all at once in several months. He took a breath and let it out in a low chuckle. "Cain't say it's my favorite place, but it sure left an impression."