It tickled in the most distinct manner. Its blades converting to the most delicate of fingers -- nails cut, buffed and palms callous free. Cerebral fingers, for they knew precisely where and how to stroke to smooth away the day's troubles. This had been the only luxury to which she'd grown familiar, the only one whose absence still pained her. Now her back laid unattended by its accustomed masseurs. Her black locks cascaded around her numb face, each coil encircling a dry patch of bitter brown, besieging the bugs therein. Though submerged under a river of strands, her ears could still make out the familiar crackle of brisk walkers on fallen leaves. She pitied them. Always moving in such hurry, ignorant of their surroundings, ignorant of the world breathing around them, the world to which their steps delivered death notices. For this she had stitched the pocket in skirt -- insurance for her greatest assuager, Tsura.

Few things endured her lifestyle, and of them, Tsura had the longest. Her stature might inspire coos and aws, but her nature surpassed such purile classification. It was from her that Keroua had learned curiosity as a child, and to her that she owed her present location. Tsura´s impervity to Keroua's mercuric nature deserved commending and nothing about her appeared to need amending.

Impatience surpassed all on Keroua´s list of flaws -- impatience or idealism, depending on your perspective.

Savo san?