Sleepy Fox Hollow the old me's dead and gone

The feeling passed. The wind settled. But she knew she had not conjured it; Vangard's pantheon had spoken. 

As her eyes opened, the healer's was aware of a renewed scent carried on the gentle curl of air - wilderness, mascunility, something cold and far removed. The serpent too shifted about the hollow of her throat, silver head lifting in his direction as if an accusatory index finger. A black tongue darted from the seam of her reptilian maw, flickering as Nayethi tasted the scent curiously. 

Leea's dark gaze found him - a pale shadow on the verge of blending, a haunting spirit of times lost to the past. A tingle of fear might have shuddered down her peppered spine, if not for the logical sense that argued he was mere mortal and not ethereal specter. 

"Heil, warrior," the pale lady would call softly - forestland orbs dancing over him briefly as a hesitant attempt at a kind smile was displayed in welcome. 

The healer's discreet glances - a trait honed by the tribal matrons - would reveal a brute of a man cloaked in white and eyes of summer though lacking in such life the season was renowned for. 

"Are you northern?" She would venture a guess, daring to rise and take a few steps closer as the native tongue flowed easily from her lips - given that he had not already fled.