Deepwood Weald do you ever feel like a plastic bag?

whaauugh, magpie answered ungracefully, her lean frame spinning around in surprise as a white figure coalesced from the mists. she felt her hackles rise briefly in fear, but the nomad quickly recovered as it became apparent that the white she-wolf before her was corporeal and not a spectre.

she dared to draw closer to the other, cautiously sniffing her shoulders and along her taller physique— if the stranger did the same, magpie would be utterly unbothered. a pack wolf, then, and not in heat or pregnant, things that would have given the corvidae a clue as to the stranger's standing if they were present. magpie's own scent was much the same, but wilder and untainted by others— she had dispersed from the familial pack some time ago.

finally, she stepped a respectful distance away, and told the other, this woman is called magpie. as an afterthought, and she's fucking lost.