Blackfeather Woods her face it bloomed like a sweet flower [m]

the glissade of windfall in the trees brought to her the scent of the northerner, the sound of his tread. and yet the priestess kept her eyes trained upon the altar; her turquoise gaze closed and she lifted her chin, pointing scarred muzzle toward the starflecked sky. for blackfeather, mother, the listener urged, mind trailing for the sound of the goddess' voice, the hiss of her serpentine companion. 
but while relmyna felt their presence within her, they would not speak unless she was alone. presently she opened her eyes, steadying herself for a moment with a glimpse toward the round moon, and then looked toward the man she had called. he was a shadow-ash layering of deeper hues, his proud ruff leonine and smoke-silver. pale-footed, his eyes the colour of ice along a frozen peninsula, he gazed toward her calmly.
with her she had brought the scapula of a wolf, from the littering of bones in the cave she had first met ramsay. across the ground toward the man did relmyna now move this, and motioned toward the altar. her seafoam stare rested implacably upon him — she had no words to offer. 
but now was not the time for words. relmyna knew nothing of this man, save that he belonged to the wood and was hale of form. tonight she worked spellcraft beneath the moon, and wished to test him for nothing more than her own curiosity. the wood was in need of those who walked in the brotherhood, and the thin wolfess wanted to miss no opportunity for such things.
while her gaze was cool, relmyna's features were soft; this was not something of which the man must be wary. there was no wrong action he could take with no word to guide him.