Standing at a familiar, nostalgic, and ubiquitous place, Eleanor Varrot allowed her feet to plant themselves on the grass, the delicate yet prickly blades conforming around her soles and wrapping in between her individual toes. They wiggled with joy at the feeling, which evoked memories from long ago.
She was barefoot.
After all this time, she could once again lay down her roots. After all this time, she could finally take a breather. After all this time, she could cherish these moments. The past few months had been a tireless but exhilarating journey. It had given her time to think, time to grow, and time to move.
Wearing her blouse and skirt with her sleeves folded up, Eleanor felt the gentle breeze flowing around her curvaceous body. As if in a dream-like trance, her arms, which had been by her sides, slowly lifted up, her wingspan growing ever so slightly by the second. Her eyes were closed as her head was held towards the sun- though not directly at it, of course.
Basking. The rays reflected off her glasses. To an observer it would almost seem as if she were trying to let the wind take her, but her rooted feet would hold her in place.
To her side and on the ground lay her more militant clothing: her armor, battle dress, hat, and wand, neatly folded and occupying a deliberate and present space.