She wrings her arms, as though a chill pervades the warm air of her coastal town only for her. Most days she's usually found in her loft, reading parchment and tomes of ancient text and new studies, hoping one day she could join the new ranks of the Kirin Tor and leave Southshore for good. She's always believed that there was magic in the world, that which laid beyond just seeing it. It wasn't about just casting spells or weaving the arcane, but having a faith in the things she could do.
Today, however, she wrings her arms. She stands at the northern path, where the town meets the road, and stares at the foggy hills. Seven years.
She wants to go home. She misses her friend.