he ventures further, out of the taiga now and into the valley he loathes so much. the memories are scarce and hazy, yet they linger, tangible enough to remind zephyr of his distaste for this place. enough to remember his birthplace. enough to know he doesn't want to go back there. so he wanders the glade instead, a wintry ghost trailing bright feverthreads of heat-scent like a beacon to any who might cross his path. by now he knows what this is — but it's far too late to care. so he doesn't. he simply pushes forward, driven by the need to reach some nameless goal he's certain he won't understand until all this is over.

a wild-furred dryad in the distance, willowy and wanderfooted like an earthbound spirit of the wood. zephyr feels sunset-gold eyes on him, and halts, instantly taken with the pretty earthen boy staring from afar. he meets the stare, head canting slightly. a single step forward, and then he speaks. hello, he calls, uncertain what he might expect from the meeting. it seems not every wolf falls under the spell of heat-scent the way wintersbane had, but the wraith has yet to find any outward indication that might tell him whether to expect one or the other. perhaps in time, he will.