The creases of her body were moist; pelvis, underarms, the valley 'tween breasts, the tail of her spine, the nape of her neck, the bridge of her nose, behind the ears..She was stomach down on her bed, a rumple of colourful cushions with tassels, painting her nails a dark, untender red. It was storm outside, the sky buffeted by clouds, so that all was gray or cast in gray light. It was bleak and shadowed like november.

She shuddered and drew her knees forward, tipping her neck and the hat from her head, placing the nail polish at the floor and moving slowly onto her knees. A hand reached out into the gray light to touch the steel-same chill of the glass windowpane. She sat staring, bemusedly, eyes a distressed umber, dipped in mellow gold.

"Why the trees losin' their leaves so early..", she mused, for it was not quite Autumn and November was month's past, so far ahead she felt like it would take years before she got there, again. The sky and the seasons were on a slow wheel, it was painfully slow, and in exasperation she flopped down off her knees and onto her back this time, feet held up in the air, purple and black striped knee highs closing against the dusky flesh they kept warm.

"I am of the fever. What is wrong...."!", she put the exclamations out there in a tsk of her tongue, closing her eyes and settling her feet onto the matress, old and sturdy, that moulded to her body, sinking where shoulderblades sunk in and where her body rolled, as she turned onto her side. Indenting what little she had to call her own, branding her possessions.

"I am not cold. And do not want to leave..."

She was not a brooding personality, though introspection and the acknowledgement of new roads and bridges to burn, to explode, would not be ignored. Without trepidation that night, once her body had been cleaned and tea of the Gob was taken to soothe the fever, her nails were dry and she had rested, she awoke at the Witching Hour to pack. Samhain felt closer too, hallowed ground and loosened soil. Where was she going, why was she so compelled"

The months at the year's end would hold her close.

Such as happened, not a few days before a Nexus stole her, and fresh foot prints were made along the dirt track to Rhy'Din proper. Shessair

A match struck, glinting in narrowed eyes, she sat reclined in an alcove of the trading houses in the docks, eyes passing across each face and those of interest, her knapsack beside her and clove smoke ascending in spirals, north.

The wind changed then, lost in her thoughts, her staking out a claim, marking the territory in her scent and her meagre articles, as the sun was eclipsed and skull 'n crossbone clouds shuddered west.

"The dead and the wicked. Ghosts risen...", she remarked beneath her breath, superstition and caution livid in her eyes and the quavering lilt of her voice. Husky in fear.

"Night not yet, living dead walk in the day. The sun as black as blood"

She shook her head and closed her eyes. Every ounce focused on the Art of breathing; in and out, through the nose not the mouth, and the heavy quiet around. And gently she grew aware of the other sounds, that would invariably invade her; passing carts, squawking crows, lewd shouts, blades hissing in cool air, the distant quake of thunder.

Then, the scent came to life. Full bodied and setting her body to goosebumps, the riddle of spiced clove smoke in her nostrils, sucked back into her lungs, to waltz in her blood. She shuddered, despite herself and stood, watching as thick, taut wire and frayed rope were passed amongst freighter mates and stewards. She canted her head and watched the bustle continue, despite the darkening sky and the augury clouds, like wave crests, passing over town.

Grabbing her knapsack she took off down the road. She'd need a dry place, not an alcove. Even with rats, for a night, her skin and clothes not sodden was a heaven for her, wanderer. Shessair