51st of Summer, 515.
Equipment (in case of battle):
3 Halfspears, 1 in her right hand and used as a sort of walking stick, 2 tucked into her left elbow.
Cloths (shirt, pants, tall boots, Very Old Jacket)
The wind screamed in her ears. You wouldn't be surprised, I hope, if I said it's always windy in Wind Reach. Morgan was stomping her way down the path down the mountain peak, and into the steppe and foothilles. She was on one of her favorite paths, and just about in her favorite place along it. Here, she could see for miles and miles into the mountains, over the tops of the hardy pines and such, which started a sight lower than her. There was a beauty to this place, a terrible beauty. The spires of far mountains clawing at the sky, the green of pine needles being one of the most striking colors, and yet there was the stern greys of the far mountain ranges, laced with white snow, and the clearest blue skies, past were clouds couldn't reach. Even if she didn't know where the hell her parents were, she'd always say that Wind Reach was where she was born.
The crisp smell of snow, tingling in he nose, brought her back to reality. She had spaced out, as she frequently did, not that it mattered at this stretch of the path, where she was still in sight of the Peak. As she continued down the path, she remembered why it was also her least favorite path. That is to say, her least favorite path is always the path she's currently walking on.
Wind Reach, being the home of Eagle Riders and such, has some of the worst kept, most insulting, unsafe roads in the whole of Kalea, with stones at nearly right angles to one another, with crevices that filled with water, now frozen, that in one swift motion, splits the stones even more drastically, and makes the road slick and, like the rest of Kalea, totally unforgiving.
Her horse, Morgan the 8th, followed close behind her, picking his hoof-falls much more carefully than Morgan 7 would ever have done. He snorted, whined, and whinneyed, complaining endlessly about the situation, and Morgan 7 gave him exactly 0 percent of her mind. The trees would start soon, she'd think, and that means we start hunting. Her stomach was churning, not because of hunger, but from nerves. Hunting was hard. She was never good at it. But, well, it was practice, and it paid the bills.
Not that she paid taxes.