Honeyed Pasture sworn before a light of knife's edge white

His call is quickly returned, turning a little in the direction he assumes he heard it. It’s a strange feeling not being able to see where things are coming from now. The further he moves in, the taller the grass seems to be over his head, and while he’s not a small wolf by any means, the thick of summer growth has proven too much for him.
 
But, ah! There she is. He turns when he hears the voice, a chuckle of his own slipping through the high stalks. “I promise I won’t bite,” she tells her, slowing to a stop and hoping for the best.