Felltree Marsh the heron's legs.

When a red head ducked under the log in front of him, Sobo's heart underwent a series of acrobatics. It soared on seeing familiar red fur, then stuttered when his blue eyes met indigo, not granny smith green, and swooped nervously at the realization that this was not Mireille, but a stranger.

He shuffled back a few steps, ears tipping forward with interest despite his shy nature when her words came out somewhat garbled. He understood what she said, but there was something off about it. Sobo ought to recognize Avicus from her time in Sapphique, but on account of both his shyness and Avicus' past reticence, he simply had not committed her face or even her scent to memory.

She did not sound pleased. Sobo let himself feel a flare of indignation. He could shout whenever he liked! He was still a rather shy wolf who backed up another few steps and lowered his ear and tails, but his voice came out a little clipped when he swallowed his nerves and replied: I be lookin' for my sister. Mireille. She looks a lot like ya do.