She walked with a majestic poise as though draped in the finest of black fur coats, although the only fur she wore was her own - though it came to almost the same thing. Her neck was dressed with handmade necklaces and strings of beads, sophisticated against the black glossy fur with her sling dangling innocently amongst the other pendants and a black velvet scarf was wrapped around her hips: only there to have something to stick a small selection of paintbrushes in, keeping her hands free. Her broad but lengthy calves carried her at a swift pace, swifter than normal, for she had further than normal to go. What it was that inspired the dignity, though, was anyone's guess. Her heart was still bruising from the regret of her mistake in cursing the dark Ravesque, but she simply had not known her own strength at the time, and since then her friends and family had rallied around her, even though nobody had any idea what she'd done. She would make amends as soon as she knew how best. And now, it was just good to be out of the tiny cave where she'd been sheltering from a hailstorm: good to be out in the breezy but less savage Southern air.
She had already forgotten what her original reasons were to make this lengthy journey, but a dignified voice and a scarred face kept swimming into her mind. It was his turn to come to her, for a bipedal lesson; but she admitted it wasn't really fair, considering he detested the two-legged culture and she had been thrilled by her lupus experience. If he was willing, though, she would have him using the paintbrushes she carried.
Her purposeless feet striding with a strange determination carried on going, leading her in the rough direction of Cour des Miracles, taking in the state of the forest and clearings on her way: the paths and tracks of the herbivores struggling with the icy weather. She herself had never gone hungry. Nor had she approached his pack from this side, the east, nor did she know if the one she sought would even still be there. So it was no wonder her route curved and detoured: winding up within view of the ocean - although still travelling west - now walking alongside an old human highway. It cut through the thin plains, cracked in many places and lined with coastal-bare stones but with a good wide strip of grass verge, the sea a line of cold grey on the horizon.