So much at the stables catches her eye when she uses her kenning, it's almost hard to focus. The lively flickers of the fae steeds. The glint from a stack of glamourous silver horseshoes. The Baron himself, strong in his mein, but not... flaring, not overflowing, like one who needs mortal grounding to avoid overdoses of the dreaming. Layers on glamour are upon him, not all his own, the touch of cantrips, the traces they leave behind. She recognizes the flavour of much of it, similar to an art she herself is skilled in.
