Cricket Creek Bog A liar and a cheat, but I could be so much worse

He turned his ear at the approach of another before he swung a glance over his shoulder to meet the strange maiden who neared him.

Glaedwine knew of witches from the folklore gossiped between his kin, and from the monickers they threw at those unfortunate enough to be born like winter's frost. Such a word was the first that he, upon instinct, classified the stranger as. But as the prejudice arose, he just as readily whisked the intrusion away. Ashamed, at how even he was not free from the superstitions of his kin.

"Pardon me," he mused, his accent obtusely foreign next to the local lilt of the other, "Something must have stolen my manners."

Witch or wolf, her doe-like grace and honeyed fur reminded him more of the blessed Deorwine than of those pale and twisted wolves they used to stain the minds of their children with, yet there was a way to the girl's face that roused his curiosity, and not just because he thought her pretty. He had seen many pretty wolves and knew their hearts were often the quickest to unearth as something devilish and sour.

No, there was something distinctive about the girl that he had not seen in any other, and Glaedwine appraised her for a long, quiet second.

"Speak. I shall answer."