The campfire of her most recent stay crackles up into a dark and star-dotted sky. An unclouded spattering of light so far away and out of reach... Yet not everything eludes her grasp. Sheltered by the makeshift roof and a bed of hay, Avos has already settled down for the night. Her hound rests with his head against her thigh and while he watches the makeshift hearth, she does not. Instead, Quince sits with a staff laid across her lap, and in one hand her finger traces the grooves of a four leaf clover gently, the note open beneath it. The tokens, while certainly not unwelcome, draw a note of confusion to the woman's face, her brows drawn together slightly. Decades on the Road, decades aspiring to the word-of-mouth and seldom-written traditions of the Traveler... She has often kept to herself, just as consequence of drifting around so ceaselessly. If these were... merely left by someone, who? Who knows of the path she walks...
"... 'M reading too much into this," she mutters, pulling a hand up through her hair. The silence broken- Peak perks an ear and glances up to her and in return, the woman offers a faint smile, going to scratch between his ears. "Don't worry, buddy. You're all good..." Quince lifts the staff and turns it once clockwise before leaning it up against the side of her tent. The clover and the note still in hand, to which he gives a curious sniff, then looks back up to her. She smiles. "Does it confuse you too? ...'S alright. We'll get it figured out, yeah? You, me, Avos..." Her gaze turns up to the stars. The desert has such a stark sky... unlike any other in the world. As endless and wide as the wanderlust that pulls her to the Road. Some more brightly than others and in her time, Quince's eyes automatically go to paint connections between them- seeing the shining sparks as towns and cities, the darkness the woodland and roads between them and not for the first time, she wonders if that is what the Traveler sees of their world. Just pricks of light, of mankind, cast against a dark field... Wisps of clouds making the roads between. "... 'M probably missing something crucial that would make this... entirely mundane.-that someone just left these and... really, they have nothing to do with you. Maybe 'm just hoping for too much, yeah?" Quince chuckles, mostly to herself though Peak gives her an encouraging nudge.
A silence passes, and she sighs lightly. "I know you're out there..." Addressing the Traveler, as she so often has in the space between dinner and rest... Quince tucks the clover away and sets the note aside, placing a pebble over it to keep the desert winds from blowing it away. Pulls an odd knob of wood from her pocket and takes her carving knife to being working it into a familiar design, much like the tokens she has already made in her spare time such as this. Time to reflect, time to ask into the silence, time to wonder with hope if she will be able to still travel when she gets older and grayer than she already is. Not quite grizzled yet, but, on her way. ".. I know that even though you don't say anything... you're out there... Dear Fellow Traveler... ...the comforting silence on the Road... In the gentle reassurance of not being alone in the flats and crags that stretch between the edges of society..." Small curls of wood are shaved off and fall onto her lap as she works at the wood. ".. Don't worry, I won't be staying in the desert wrong... but I like to think your Road brought me here for the reason these people currently face... snakes that threaten their freedom, their will to travel... beings that make the desert dangerous. ...I've resolved to stay until I've helped them, then move on again..." Quince smiles gently as the rough outline of a horse begins to form in her carving. "You have taught me well, and I have long since left behind the idea of seeking anchors..."
Her gaze roves off to the staff, the note, the clover.. Then down to the faintly green amulet she has worn for.. as long as she can remember. Or to the familiar weight of the beaten compass in her pocket. "... Is this your doing, or another who.. understands... ... ...I don't expect an answer, but if it is you, then... thank you..." Her heart warms much like the fire that lights her face and her work. "...Thank you, because... I've often wondered if it's ever noticed... I know I've made no big or grand gestures.. I'm not a preacher, and you're not a war god... the Road isn't a place for bold actions really.. it's just something you stick with, yeah? Defend it, respect it, get by, go along... but I do try... I do try to be worthy of.. getting to some day walk your footsteps.. walk alongside you. Wishful thinking, yeah? ...maybe so.." Quince pauses, looking to the rough coin shape now in her hands- a bit larger than one would actually trade with, but the design, though simple, is recognizable. She runs a thumb over its face, then the other. Is this praying? Probably not... more casual, more of a conversation... and not of religion but of faith. Nothing rigid.
And comfort on as rough a path of life as the Road is a beautiful, wonderful thing. Her fingers close over the token before she tucks it into her pocket, sheathes the knife, and takes up the note. Turning it over to write very simply for whoever or whatever might have left the clover an the walking stick-
((@ Whoever the heck left 'Oklamat's Luck' and 'Bethezael's Walking Staff' outside her camp))
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