Serinya hadn't wanted to stay at the festival. If anything, she longed to leave behind the gaity and celebration that felt over-bright and false compared to the events of the evening, night, and morning.
But Asilaria might still come. Mikhail and Lorali also typically visited the festival to sell the weaving they made on the road.
She might still find her kin here, and that was incentive enough to stay.
She didn't partake in the variety of food or drink on offer, didn't pause to enjoy any of the street performers singing or juggling, dancing or playing strange and exotic instruments.
The makeshift stalls of books and cloth, trinkets and jewelry didn't catch her eye.
She was on the opposite edge of the festival, passing a vendor who sold strange and colorful fish when a crash behind her caught her attention.
Serinya spun, her silks a flutter of motion to find a figure sprawled across the street.
Without hesitation, she approached.
"Oh goodness," she offered with an accent laced with exotic spices. She crouched, unconcerned, in the street, offering a hand down to the unfortunate stranger. "Are you alright?"