Fox's Glade I saw a light.

The wolf sweeps closer and inspects their surroundings, while Ibis watches as if transfixed. The way they move is confident, and while they are larger and older, they make next to no sound. They are so unlike Ibis — this Ira — that the young girl immediately feels small by comparison. (She is like, half her size, but beyond that feels like she's talking with a dragon or something mythological while she is a puny mortal.)

There was that smell again. It draws Ibis' attention back to the greenery, and she hears Ira explain: I can easily inform you that it belongs to a fox. The word means next to nothing to Ibis; although there is a vague sense that she should recognize it. Once, someone had tried to teach Ibis and Okeanos about the fox, but it was so long ago - and she so young - that it was a memory lost to her mental depths.

A fox. She repeats, taking a deep breath so that the awful smell cements itself in her brain with that word for future use; she feels ill almost immediately because of the strength of that smell, but toughs it out. While she tries not to gag, she asks: Is it bad? It smells really bad. she clears her throat a few times and tries not to seem so inexperienced, lifting her chin a touch, emulating Ira a little bit more as the conversation progresses. I'll help—somehow. I'd like to get a look at it.