It was a soft, lilting tune that hummed around the runner stables, broken occasionally by the scraping of the pitchfork being used to shuck old, dirty hay and replace it. Farensil had finally been freed of her bracing and bandages a little while ago and she seemed to be taking advantage of the medic's allowance for her to get back to chores. These weren't actually hers; she'd already completed those, and she'd be moving on to others before long.

She was considering the kitchens; maybe they needed a hand peeling tubers or scrubbing cauldrons today...

Thaliawen