Wapun Meadow ii. and an isle you must be

She grimaces, vaguely sheepish at the reminder of her tactless failure. A damning purple orb seeks the weasel's threshold - cursing the small creature for its quick reflexes, for embarrassing her such. 

"There's been worse," she comments, neither protest nor agreement. (She recalls distinctly an occasion where Rhaelyx had tumbled through a briar patch as a pup, mercilessly teased by his sister as a porcupine for moons.)

"Oh, that's alright," she waves away his apology gracefully, with a kind smile, "I'm sorry for acting like such a heathen; you just caught me off guard." 

"Are you a curative?" The night wisp asked after a moment, somewhat randomly, as she nestled her flanks against the earth; head listing to the side as she examined him with a curious gaze - cataloguing him as such based on the plant matter woven into his ragged ruff.