Sun Mote Copse a world, coming to see

Her eyes did find. A figure in the trees - 

Then there came two ivy eyes meeting her own.

Ah. A wanderer, a southerner? At least one must be true. If the cold of the north had imbued itself into the woman, she did not show it. Instead she carried herself with clear-cut grace and kind confidence. The stranger, too, had a world in her eyes.

She would see, she would see. If the woman did not judge her liking for singing, then perhaps a friend had been found in her.

A poet? I dare not call myself one. A'yan thought for a moment. I am but one who remembers.

It was true; the song was not of her own making, but of the riverlands she called home. Then again, home was everywhere, was it not? So the song belonged to all corners of the world, she supposed.

She turned back to the woman. A brilliant complexion, washed with a gentle gold. Fur soft with the essence of sunlight, belly round with children unborn. Rarely had A'yan seen another traveler of her appearance or even a demeanor so soft.

Are you fond of poetry? She looked around again, at twisted woods with patches of sun and rivers that babbled in the melody of water. Do you think this place to be fit for song and dance?