Banter passed between her and others at the Market, when she made her daily visit, if only so she could fulfil her heart's quest for a new life and come to learn the art of expression. There was nothing she wanted more than to see sunshine when she closed her eyes, to smell hay and mown grass, and the rush that came with warm rain on her skin. And to find people to share her heart and her mind with. Friends.

These visualisations she committed to daily, conditioning herself to be prepared, ever alert, one who searches, and who remains optimistic.

The evening before she had offered her aid to a stranger, her first attempt in Rhy'Din at exchange, a tall, colourfully dressed man with golden hair. His behaviour she had found most strange. For all the vibrancy of his clothing he was dashed with an unsettled presence, going from a hesitant, wary soul to one who smiled and offered her a drink and in the next instant was slamming the door beside her, which left her jarred for a beat, and her curious to the cause of his imbalance; he looked for the coiling darkness, the same inky sinister mass that she had come across on a walk and so Talisa could only conclude that this, as he had mentioned, was the source.

She would return to Liath this day, having left the Inn the previous night to retire in her cubbyhouse of blankets, wood planks and a mattress of leaves in Terin, outer Rhy'Din, and today, free, she would walk through the fields, run her fingers through the stalks, and lay amongst the dandelions, staring at the clouds until her eyes watered and her skin was cold with the sinking of the sun.

In her hands was held a butterfly. Its wings were shuddering as it crawled around her palm, fresh from its cocoon. What a magical little being, thought Talisa, and she uncupped her hands, watching as it scrambled forward and flew into the morning.

The air was dry for a near winter day and the birds were plenty in the trees. The smell of crepes and the black and orange cloth strung about the Marketplace made her smile. It was like the world was coming alive again to praise its dead and sing with it for one night. All Hallows Eve has always been a peace for her, where it seemed that the land moved at a slower pace and the smiles on all faces softened. Talisa watched those that passed her and smiled thinly to herself; whether they 'knew' it or not, the dead walked with them, and they 'felt' it, just not everyone believed.

Crossing her legs as she sat down at the bench of a vendor selling those crepes, she watched with a hungry look as the buttermilk was thrown across the grill and shapes, often smiley faces, were concocted. The smell was intense with the piping hot spit of grease, the underlying yolk and powder of cinnamon mixed between.

Talisa listened to the conversations around her with a plaintive face painted on, pretending to be engrossed in her festive food, which wasn't entirely a pose in itself. She was dressed in a plain cloth gown with pearly buttons done to the chest, and light, gently puffy sleeves to her forearms. Her hair was loose of its ribbon and instead made into many small braids and then weaved into a knot a top her head. Throughout her crown were placed daisys, happy, friendly, pretty little daisys, their petals bruising by the afternoon as the wind picked up, fierce across the Marketplace, shaking the chimes and flags, tents and all those Halloween hued cloths. Paused in the middle of the milling people she stared at the chaos of colour, smell and music and smiled at the tingle she got all over.