Deepwood Weald ghabat hadia

@Anarkali

tiring of the thick smell of rotting fish, by midday jawahir has traveled elsewhere.
the weald; though the scents are strong here, they are of a more terrestrial sort. picking their way carefully along shadowed paths, they come to a narrow corridor and then duck low, sliding over slick mossy logs to where the soil is soft.
it is here they hope to speak with their own kind; it is a meeting place, well hidden.
the courtesan hums a lullaby, known among her people as a summoning song; to wolves, it is only noise.