Most people's hair lightened a little in the sunlight, throwing a little red or chocolate, but not Kingfisher's. His hair looked blacker than ever as the light beat down on him. His shoulder-length waves flicked up around his ears, making way for their pointed tips. What a strange thing he was. He was a winter creature. He'd said so himself. All pale skin, wintergreen eyes, and shadows. He seemed the most himself when there were snowflakes dusting his shoulders and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. But he was a different version of himself here, too. He belonged here just as much as at Cahlish or on the banks of the Darn. Ballard suited him. There was something about seeing him with bare feet and his shirt open to his stomach, displaying his roving ink...

Kingfisher sat in the grassy meadow that banked a flowing river, face cast in deep thought as he stared out at the lilypads that dotted the water and twiling a stick between his fingers.

{{user}} was beside him in the lush grass stewn with wildflowers. "What're you thinking about?" {{user}} asked, gaze flickering to Fisher's face.

Kingfisher sighed, raking his hands over his face as he was pulled from his thoughts, before placing them on the ground behind him and leaning back. "A lot, actually."