Silver Moraine his garden at argenteuil

The lift and fall of his shoulder is not missed, and Saena assumes that's that. She glances beyond him briefly to the towering moraine and the stationary berg beyond, surveying for activity before she prepares herself to leave, but as she's focusing on the glacier, the butterscotch sylph of a male responds. She doesn't understand what he calls himself, but manages to glean some understanding from his description of his lifestyle. A scout, perhaps, some kind of mental cartographer in wolfish terms. "Me too," she shares, "or, well, I was once." Those days are behind her now, she thinks sadly.

Letting her hind legs splay out to the side of her, the alpha female re-positions herself for comfort as she digests Renoir's next question. "The greatest beauty of this area," she tells him, though there are many beauties in the taiga, and that's to say nothing of the wide wilds beyond. "I think so, anyway. The trees are red and orange and yellow in autumn. A sight to behold." Redtail Rise would've been the most beautiful in her eyes if it still stood, but it stands charred and dead, unfortunately. Others would say the glacier is the most stunning of sights in the taiga. The sprawling plains to the west are moreso to others, and the red-orange wood near the mountains is nothing to sneeze at.

But for Saena, her home is the most splendid of all sites, and her plan is to live and die in it.