Porcupine Ridge saturday night kind of pink

voice calls out once more, this time, markedly different in tone. the sun bakes against her back, sinking ember-tipped fingers into the darkest whirls of her coat, lending the air a shimmering quality. the shadow shifts, longing to sink back into the comfort of the lowlands. lost. it is not unexpected, so does not know any good reason one would find themselves up here willingly. 

a dip of her chin, and she slides back to her paws. a neat motion of her muzzle, one which clearly invites the other to follow. she may not know the best path, but the way back to the little glen she'd come from remain clear enough in her mind. she takes a step back the way she'd come, peering back to see if the stranger would require any more convincing, not that she could offer much of any.