Deepwood Weald fṇðṇ

Enquiry;
not from the throats of those who had sworn themselves to her;
instead echoing the foyer of a huntress' breast. And so, with pointed, gauzy notice, the stricken crescented about to seek this speaker beneath the burnished eve's gleam. A phantom of a smile.

"Perhaps,"  featherlight musings; low, somnolent chords,  "to those who are not of its mists,"
and drew from her muted soul the mantle of unassuming fright; a faux guise. Yet still, she must let the lurker think her unguarded; let the lurker think her unfamiliar with such invidious intent, skulking beneath those drawled tones. In both lives had the silver been hunted; so she presented herself as such; tail afeather at spindled hocks; the shorn spine curved against its angularity.

Let this lurker think her unversed in such pursuits;
if this ghoul so wished to deal with wit, or dance with wrath—
she must tempt her nearer, either way.

"Might I presume you are no mere wanderer?"