Lost Creek Hollow snow pheasant

She slipped closer, and Faun eyed her curiously. Smaller and older than she, with discerning blue eyes that made Faun feel like she was being flayed beneath the knife of a surgeon.

Or perhaps the senses of a keen diplomat. Her mother had looked at her with those eyes once. 

Faun blinked, startled out of her reverie, then nodded. 

Somewhat, yes. But I never have been able to grow a thick winter’s coat. Unlike the wolves, she had the oil slick coat of the dog. Her tail brushed her ankles as she gave it a friendly wave from side to side.

Perhaps I shall have to find something. She chimed.

It is good to meet you, Silvertongue.