Fox's Glade be cunning, and full of tricks

"you're a wicked, foolish girl, mona antha mayfair!" the girl chided herself aloud in a sharp hiss, rubbing teardrops roughly from her cheeks with the crook of one forepaw. but there came a whisper to her ear; the druidling froze, lifting her crimson visage to regard the fine-boned, kind features of the dark creature who had approached her.
he carried the scent of wolves on withers that did not belong to her kith; mona's tears were forgotten in her surprise, the widening of her wet murkwater eyes as she gathered the rich details of the unfamilar face. had it been another wolf, the mayfair would have quit the glade in horror, but the warmth in the other's eyes seemed somehow unconditional, and the girl found the brief tension melting from her muscles. "what ... what are you?" she whispered, and then her crimson ears folded. "how very rude of me. i apologize." oh, wouldn't rowan be proud of her?