Existence [closed to Yvonne]

[Yvonne]

One could say the dark-haired woman was busy with a horse. The chestnut palfrey in question felt stress, made obvious to those who listened to horses through the pitch of his whinny squeal. He was a perceptive gelding and had noticed a change in his handler. Change wasn't something he wanted - horses could be like humans in that way - and he was determined to return things to the way they were with his shrill whinnies and irritable nickers.

Quietly crying to herself like a lost lamb led astray in a wide open paddock, trying to be brave but uncertain she knew how. The protégé was whimpering as she struggled to fit the saddle upon the horse. Harnessing an animal for pulling a wagon? Not a problem. Tacking one for riding was different and her memories of doing so weren't clear, too upset to think straight. Sniffling silently, she held the stirrups out of the way but placed the saddle on the palfrey back to front. The tears trickling down her cheeks had blurred her vision so the mistake remained unseen.

The gelding's snort was derisive. He wasn't impressed with the turn of events. The clever horse felt the saddle positioning was wrong and boy, did he let her know. With the heftiest headshake he could muster the rest of his body wobbled throughout, from shoulders to hindquarters - the unsecured saddle slid off and thumped to the ground. He neighed, seemingly satisfied with his handiwork.

The diminutive drow woman let the saddle lay where it may, feeling thwarted for the time being. Something Abel had drummed into her mind was the importance of a horse's free will. They were creatures not to be forced by commands, but convinced through suggestion. She would persuade him when he, and she, were in a better mood. For now he could return to his breakfast oats, and she'd not bother him. There was no hurry that she was aware of. Not for her.

A feminine voice questioned her nearby and the drow-dwarf hybrid was caught off-guard. She'd been lost in her own little world, within the confines of the stable stall. Whirling around to acknowledge the stranger, the Alerar-born looked a shocking blend of high fashion and low spirits. She was bound in straps and buckles from head to toe, a black leather corset and black cotton skirt, white-sleeved shirt and knee-high stockings - not to overlook glove-clocks and spyglass-goggles stretched across her forehead. The mixed breed appeared entirely out of place in the rustic barnyard, if you were to judge the book by its cover.

Small hands dabbed away the tears from her face, embarressment colouring her cheeks. She croaked a reply, "Oh, aye... I mean, yes, ye could say that." Gathering her composure as quickly as could be, she cleared her throat, took a deep breath and exhaled to settle herself.

"Ye sound as though ye've met Abel," she diverted, attempting to move the attention away from herself. "I've only known him ta use words like those."

Her horse eyeballed the white lady calmly. His teeth continued to grind oats as he stared, perhaps curious, perhaps not. He made a token effort at interest, checking to see if this one had more food most likely.

"How might I help ye? ... I be sorry, been one of those days," the black-skinned woman explained, though the details of her morning were left unspoken.