Porcupine Ridge wo mögen sie wohl morgen sein

rain on stone, the voice of another. she straightens, gaze finding another woman not too far ahead. a "sorry," slips from her maw, reflexively, as she stills. she trembles, lightly, the damp in her pelt is an apt conductor of the cold. 

the woman seems almost familiar, and she's certainly near enough to the vale she knows must lie somewhere to the north-east of here. "are you from courtfall?" she queries gently, tail wafting lightly behind her as the rain begins to let up, gradually.