Whitefish River Little White Fish

And again, her lips curled fondly. 

Something tangible echoed in his timbres, the snow sylph sensing this was another thing they shared: the aching crave of the arctic's bitter kiss, the only kind she'd known. 

"I do hope so," the girl murmured softly, smile fading ever so slightly, a shadow casting over her features, a frost hardening them like winter sweeping over the land. 

"Are there many packs 'ere?" The healer asked of him then with a curious cock of her alabaster head, downy ears bouncing, tone deceptively light as she tactfully shifted topics.