Jade Fern Grove pilot

look. icy mist thickens the air. light scarcely reaches the forest floor. a single four-legged creature with wintery eyes makes footfall on the snow beneath.

listen. each footstep is a crunch. no bird makes its call. trees creak, resisting the wind's will.

smell. no pack makes this place their home. a deer has come through recently, and evenfall pauses to inhale the rich scent of scat. not recently enough to pursue, and he does not have the strength of a pack to aid him.

feel. a gust ruffles his coat, but his double-layered fur keeps the cold at bay. his stomach protests the longer he goes without food, trying to digest what is not there.

taste. he remembers the taste of warm organ meat, and his mouth waters.

the air hangs heavy, almost stifling despite the sharp bite of frost. suliya moves cautiously, her steps measured, ears pivoting to catch every creak and whisper of the barren forest. the mist curls around her legs, clinging as if it might betray her approach. her pale eyes glint like shards of ice in the dim light, fixed on the figure ahead.

her nose twitches, taking in the faint scent of deer, long gone. but it is the wolf she sees that holds her attention now—a lone shadow in the winter-wrapped woods, stark against the stillness.

her breath mists as she exhales slowly, carefully. she steps closer, letting the crunch of her paws on the snow announce her presence without words. her frame is taut with readiness, not hostility, but a wary sort of preparation for whatever might follow.

you’re alone. her voice is quiet, almost swallowed by the thick air, but there is no malice in it—only observation. her gaze lingers on him, searching for signs of intent, though she does not yet close the space between them. cautious, as always, suliya waits.

listen. evenfall hears footsteps, not his own. he turns, and she speaks.

smell. the wind carries her scent closer. she smells of others, a pack.

look. her fur is a cascade of stony greys with a single dark line down her back. she carries herself almost haughtily, with a conviction evenfall had seen only in the most pious of his kin. when she exhales, a puff of steam rolls from her nostrils. she keeps her distance, eyes on him, watching.

feel. the sun-worshipper feels the dampness in his mouth when he opens it to speak. as are you, he observes.

suliya’s ears flicked at the male’s words, her pale gaze steady and assessing as she stood firm, the cool wind threading through her fur. his observation was met with a faint lift of her brow, the edges of her mouth tipping in a smile that was neither warm nor dismissive.

yes, she replied, her voice smooth and measured, carrying a weight of authority that came naturally to her. she studied him for a beat longer, noting the richness of his green eyes and the tension in his frame.

what is it you seek? her words were not unkind, but they carried an edge of curiosity, her tail swaying lightly behind her. the others—his kin, his purpose?—these things might wait. for now, suliya wanted to know what had brought him to this moment, to stand before her with the chill of the wind threading between them.

look. he watches the flick of her ear, the movement of her gaze, the lift of her brow, her scant smile, the way the wind sifts through her fur.

listen. she asks what he seeks, and evenfall chews on the question. to spread the word of our god, sol.

feel. even now, sol worked to warm the air so this icy mist—which nearly permeated the winterborn's coat—would clear. it was sol who greeted evenfall each day, and it was sol who bid him goodnight each evening. though he had been born in the year's darkest season, evenfall had never felt far from his beloved god.