Blackfeather Woods your beauty makes them weak

an inquiry, and one she parted her jaws to answer. and then a compliment held in the low dulcet rumble of tones carved from ice, somehow warmed with a brief sunshine for her. self-conscious, beneath her pale fur the listener flushed, lifting her gaze to the dark canopy overhead as if it would provide her with clarity. thank you. i have been spending time with the ravens. on the third day, the largest gave me this. relmyna recalled how it had moved along the branch, had hopped onto her nape without a show of fear, and when it lifted, the feather twisted firmly into her ruff as a gift.
the mother has come to you, she mused, eyes closing for a long moment. she was pleased with you when last you were here, and now sees fit to reveal herself. a statement, but was she not listener? did she not speak for the gods when they had no language that could be understood by mortals?
the cold whisper of winds promising snow suddenly knifed through the altar-site, a frenzy which stirred her fur and departed as soon as it had come. truly delighted, relmyna laughed, a low sound that came from the recesses of her throat and dissipated with the icy zephyr. she listens even now. 
she whispers to me of change in blackfeather, of the dangers i can not afford to regard complacently. we are a place of magick, after all, and at times those who are monstrous are drawn to the wood for that reason. so somber a note to end her speaking upon, but wintersbane had asked, and relmyna saw no reason to answer with anything less than honesty.