it shouldn’t surprise anyone who knows her well that letha would eventually slip out of the ballroom for a bit of fresh air. she is good at a lot of things, socializing one of them, dancing another, but spending hours on end inside is not one of them. even in the grand scale of the main ballroom begins to feel a little stuffy and constricting eventually, and after letha has made one lengthy round of the who’s who ( and some who aren’t ) of atherion, she eventually makes her way out, feet instinctively carrying her to the place that feels the most like home in the castle : the royal stables. it is no time for a quick ride —she isn’t a recluse— but a little time with the other attendees of the ball wouldn’t be so bad.
the familiar noises of shifting hooves and crunching grains, and the sweet scent of hay and straw meet her, settling the slight tension that’d knotted between her shoulders. the stable hand on duty recognizes her, letting her pass with little more than a nod, her boots quite against the stone floor of the stable as she passes magnificent creates from atherion’s elite. she pauses a few times before she reaches snowfire’s modest stall, fingers drifting over his tack before she shrugs out of her deep red riding coat and hangs it next to the leather harnesses, protecting it from horsehair and stains. letha reaches for a brush then, stepping inside with a quiet murmur. “ hey boy. ” she begins to brush her white stallion with expert motions, her steed looking briefly at her before returning to munch on his grains. she’s not sure how much time passes, her humming softly to herself — faint music from the ball carried on the cool, spring evening air. she will go back... but not just yet.
