Fairspell Meadow and some of his servants are to be

Golden light filtered through the sheet of gray hiding the cerulean sky, kissing the fae's flaxen pelt. Feyre stood out against the grayscale landscape, a dot of honeyed color. Except for her paws, which were covered in dried mud, she was more presentable then she had been since the first thaw. This laced her with a confidence she had forgotten, drove her to pad out on to the open terrain versus hiding in the shadows of the treeline.

One mitt before the other, two steps in one breath.

That had been her pattern for hours, until she saw the two figures. One with a creamy agouti pelage, and one with a pelt of obsidian. The dove stood frozen in place, their mummered words riding on the wind towards her. The fae waiting until they no longer spoke, then padded into hearing range, making certain that she was still far enough away that she did not spook them. A small breath, one to calm the fluttering in her chest, before she spoke. "Hello there?" It was a respectful greeting, not too friendly, not too cold. Yet, she still added that small, inviting curve of her maw to be sure.