Timestamp 9th Winter Year 513
Kizora rested her head against the tree behind her. Vicious winds pierced through her cloak, numbing her fingers. Each time she pulled the small eating knife across the wood she'd chipped from the tree, it left little nicks in her fingers. They were painful, but it helped her to feel alive.
She didn't know what she was making, just that she needed to make something. Anything, actually, anything at all. It was best not to think about it, better to just let her hands figure it out. The tips of her fingers were stained the tiniest color red, so she had to take special care not to smear it onto the wood.
Under her breathe, she hummed a the tune to a poem her mother used to tell her. Only vague memories were retained about what the poem was actually about, but the soft tune was imbedded in her soul. Each hiccup in the tune felt heavenly. She hadn't let herself fall to such silly pleasures in a long time.
The lump of wood began to take form in her hand. She lifted it up to admire it. A cloud, she thought. Probably a cloud. Her elbow hit the Crescent Sword at her hip as she brought it back down to look closer. It had gotten in her way so many times, she'd considered moving it. Such an act would be silly though. If one decides to hang out in dangerous areas, they must, of course, keep themselves armed. She continued to carve, and scanned the forest as she did so, checking for any oncoming threats.