Sleepy Fox Hollow golden threads of the craftsman's loom

Ginsberg was met with friendliness, which was something of a surprise for someone who had been raised to realize that kindness did not often have a place in their world. There was a glimmer in the eyes of the stranger before her tail swung to accompany her warm greeting. The wild wolf drew her ears forward and watched the lithe female with a quiet smirk on her dark lips. “No, I was only watching it,” she remarked in an offhand tone. Hunting foxes wasn't her specialty, after all. She preferred the company of the fiery tricksters more than anything else. “Were you?” Ginsberg then inquired with a slight canting of her skull. In her experience, there were only a few differences in hunters. There were those who thought that they could hunt anything, and then there were those who found a specialization in their craft and sought only what they knew to be the perfect catch. She had little admiration for the first hunters – those who did not care – and so she had issued her question as a test for this stranger.