Dry but pungent fall fragrances fill the nostrils as the woman carries on in wanderlust with ears tuned out to the endless wail of her wretched weapon. Though persistent for attention, screaming in hunger at her every step like a helpless infant, she is neglectful; testimony to the sinkhole in her soul each day she must tolerate its company. Yet she is not without ability to feel the waist-high wheat at her dexter, lifting her hand to brush her fingers across their bristly feathers. It inspires the smallest of smiles and compels her to halt and force the sword's hush. Eyes close as a zephyr blows through her; rolling through the meadow with a long sigh as it rustles her fabric and plays with the bangs over her forehead; even the obnoxious cawing of crows in the distance is a mellifluous replacement.

A fleeting pleasure fading when eyes open and behold a vision of falling flame far ahead. 

Her wide stare watches the falling star land in the field without boom or quake while her lips form an indifferent line. Soon snakes of black smoke slither upward to signal a fire; A lump of dread rolls in her gut and she purses her lips into a frown at thought of what might follow the event: the dry grass and wheat will catch and raze the entire area following capricious wind. Then all bets are off for any nearby homes and people within them; because she has power to prevent that it makes putting out the blaze her responsibility. Although the cruel truth is hinted by a solemn sentence of velvety timbre. “...but you wouldn't want that, would you?”

Nevertheless she walks afresh and resumes the famished howl of her sword, her fingers still run across tickling wheat as anxiety builds with every step closer to the source of smoke. Focus upon that prevents registry of the figure ahead but they are not priority; a friendly warning will suffice before she passes by and tends to the threat at hand.