”You… Why are you h e r e?”
Wandering’s measure, lost upon the breeze, none but the wind and fate decide where she should put forth her next foot, be it the blood-soaked earth of a battlefield, the worn wood floorboards of an inn, or the dew-soaked grass of an open field.
Only now do the rhythmic steps cease to make their wayward advance. There’s no recognition of query posed to be found ‘pon yonder tongue, nor any return sentiment made. There is but the leveling of an iron gaze, one that pronounces obvious awareness of the one to which she finds her stare locked.