The Sunspire On a hillside, desolate

she giggles, watching the mud drip down the stone. "still pretty," the coygirl assures the white-furred artist, her lips twisted in a sweetly amused smile. nara, she introduces, and wb dips with a flourished bow, always pleased to make the acquantice of a pretty lady. "witchbaby," witchbaby returns, "an' -- haha, nah, i ain't patrollin'." does she look like the type? she's content to float day to day with nothing to ground her. "you the secretly strong an' tough type, ay?"