Footsteps, halting and infirm, draw her attention from the sky. She watches the older mare approach from the corner of her eye, finally turning her head fully when it becomes clear that the mare intends to come all the way up to Sloene. Silver eyes flick up and down the stranger as she considers the words. Pretty? The little mare looks back up at the sky and then back towards the elderly mare, a quizzical look on her face. She doesn’t want to disagree right away – that’s not polite – so she settles for: “It’s certainly something,” in a dry voice.
She’s not full of sunshine, and she likes the world when it’s slightly shadowy. She knows, so well, that the universe is not black and white. Still, she’d prefer night or a thunderstorm to a mere cloudy day. The other question is less inconspicuous, feels weightier, and she watches the crone carefully before she answers. “Looking for something,” she says finally, glancing back at the sky before turning and settling to talk to the stranger. “I don’t know who I am. What I want. I seem to be in a stasis, of sorts.”
Sloene doesn’t look like much – she knows that. Small, that’s what she looks like, and relatively unimpressive. She’s stocky and solidly built, not feminine, and a profile that tends towards the roman nose side of things. Not a striking beauty, and not a powerful warrior. Just Sloene. “How do you define yourself?” the girl asks the woman, and waits quietly for an answer.